Into The Fire
by Baniac
Summary: Bane begins his new life after being excommunicated from the League of Shadows, from mercenary soldier to Gotham's reckoning.
1. Chapter 1

**INTO THE FIRE**

**One**

Bane awoke to birdsongs and the golden fall of morning sunlight splayed across the marble floor of his spacious, glittering room. From the large bed where he lay sprawled like some lion after a sating kill, he blinked at the light, amazed that he had slept beyond sunrise; he could not recall the last time he had done so. The doors to his private veranda stood open, just as he had left them last night after arriving here. The mild temperatures made it difficult to believe that it was late December. Even more challenging to comprehend was the reality that just a few days ago he had been nearly waist-deep in the snows of the Himalayas.

Memories caused him to frown and his heart to ache when he thought of those whom he had been forced to abandon at his mountain home mere days ago. No, not his home…no longer that. He was unwelcome at the monastery that the League of Shadows used as their base. The pain of excommunication had grown more and more unbearable the farther he had traveled in his exodus. There had been moments—usually when alone at night—when he had contemplated taking his pistol in hand and ending his life, for the unknown future that lay before him was too overwhelming. But the same stubborn spirit that had carried him through twenty-five years in a hellish subterranean prison would not allow him to meekly give in to despair now.

He lay with only a satin sheet covering his half naked form, but he was not chilled. Bane much preferred cooler temperatures; prison had adapted him to such. There warmth had been achieved only by lighting charcoal braziers. Fire had been the primitive source of the monastery's warmth as well. He was accustomed to such simplicity, such hardships. That was why he lingered in bed now, simply staring around the room in disbelief at the opulent décor. He had been too exhausted last night to admire his surroundings; he had cared only to collapse amidst the pillows and sweet-smelling sheets of the broad, beckoning bed. Now, with the streaming natural light growing stronger by the minute, the room's beauty took on a new glory.

Like the breathtaking reception hall downstairs that he had passed through last night, his room was painted with colorful frescos and murals. Rich red and gold rugs matched the patterned ceiling from which hung a crystal chandelier, a smaller version of the one that sparkled in the hall last night. Even with the light fixture turned off, the chandelier seemed to produce light, catching the reflective sunlight pouring in through the outer doors and dancing it about the room. Highly carved furniture boasted comfortable cushions—also of red and gold—tempting guests to recline.

The guest house—more of a small palace actually, with a multitude of rooms on two levels—lay quiet, and he wondered if he was the only visitor. He had seen no one else upon his arrival except two male servants—the first had met him at the door last night and delivered him to his room where the second met him to attend to anything Bane might need. Considering the opulence of just this lesser building, he could only imagine what the main palace looked like.

It was altogether fitting that Melisande had once lived amidst such beauty, for to Bane she herself had epitomized beauty. Even now, some eleven years after her death in prison, Bane could still picture her dusky, graceful form—a young woman who gave birth to an equally beautiful girl named Talia not long after coming to the pit prison. Bane smiled beneath his grotesque mask, a breathing apparatus that covered his mouth and what remained of his nose, its function to deliver a constant medicinal vapor to alleviate the lingering pain of old injuries suffered in prison. Bane's smile was a private one when he considered Melisande's daughter, nearly seventeen years old now; no longer a girl but a young woman. A young woman whom he loved dearly, one who had physically offered herself to him as a precious farewell gift on his last night at the monastery. Closing his eyes, he relived that experience—his first lovemaking—as he had relived it many times since his exile. Such thoughts had sustained him on his long journey from Bhutan to India and the western state of Rajasthan. Had Talia known beforehand how her kindness would have such lasting effects? He wondered if she, too, thought fondly of that night, and if such memories eased the pain of separation.

Then his thoughts returned to his room, to this place, a sprawling, palatial compound near the Thar Desert, the home of Talia's grandparents. Beautiful in appearance, yes, but Bane knew the ugliness that lived here, the evil; an evil that taunted Bane, for though he wished with every fiber of his being to seek out that darkness and destroy it for what had been done to Melisande, he knew—for Talia's sake—he could not. His vengeance, at least for now, must be denied.

Bane left his bed and donned a plush white bathrobe that lay neatly folded on a low chest near the footboard. Tying the belt loosely, he padded across the cool floor and stepped out onto the veranda. The jumbled conversation of birds roosting on the rooftop railings went on unabated. The palace compound spread out in all directions. The guest house—a two-story stone structure of pale tan, yellow, and ivory—was situated in the center of a large courtyard, the first of several connected courtyards. Dominating everything, the main palace arose to the south, some six stories high, glimmering pale and resplendent in the sunlight spilling over the surrounding barren, rocky hills. Like the guest house, it was ringed with screened verandas. The architecture was an interesting blend of Islamic and Rajput with a touch of European flare.

Briefly Bane went back inside, long enough to replenish the two small canisters at the rear of his mask. As the fresh supply of opiate writhed through the small tubes connecting the canisters to the front of the mask, Bane breathed deeply then returned to the veranda, taking with him a large cushion. There in the mild warmth he made himself comfortable and closed his eyes to meditate, to carry forward the energy renewed from such a welcomed night of rest and to prepare himself emotionally for the audience that lay ahead.

"Sir?" a soft but persistent voice worked its way through Bane's mental barrier some twenty minutes later. "Excuse me for disturbing you, sir."

Bane took in one final deep, cleansing breath, then exhaled, the mask amplifying the sound. Opening his eyes, he turned only his head to see a male servant hovering near the veranda doors, a young Arab with nervous hands and a distinct inability to know where to look while in Bane's presence. The mask, of course, as well as Bane's formidable size produced similar reactions from others. When he was younger, such behavior agitated Bane, but now he almost reveled in it, knowing he was instantly at an advantage without even saying a word or making a single gesture.

"Your breakfast is ready, sir," the servant said in halting English. His gaze darted at the mask then downward, and he seemed about to inquire as to how Bane managed to eat, but discretion stayed his tongue.

"Thank you."

"She is expecting you at ten. I will return for you in half an hour's time."

"Very well."

The servant hurried from the room.

Bane returned inside where a tray of food awaited him on a small table just off the veranda. His mouth twitched in a pleased smile when he found cooked oats, soft fruits and breads, along with yogurt, accompanied by juice and tea. No doubt Maysam's thoughtfulness was behind the easily-ingested selection. She knew much about him, thanks to Talia's regular letters and other forms of communication.

Before removing the mask to eat, he injected himself with morphine, a small dose to sustain him through the quick meal as well as a hasty bath. Then, dressed in clean clothes and wearing the mask once again, he was ready when the attendant returned to escort him to Maysam.

He was led across the courtyard, the sun bouncing off the pavement, causing him to squint. The courtyard boasted only a few trees, and those were small and mainly ornamental, offering little shade. The cloudless sky promised a pleasant day, and though Bane usually preferred cloud cover, today he welcomed the brightness, for it lifted his spirits and gave him an unexpected surge of hope. Such thoughts put him in mind of Daniel Goleman's study of emotional intelligence: "Having hope means that one will not give in to overwhelming anxiety, a defeatist attitude, or depression in the face of difficult challenges or setbacks." Ah, yes, but Goleman had never been in the pit prison nor had he ever been banished from all that he loved.

To reach the adjoining courtyard, they passed through an ornate gate whose archway was painted riotous colors and boasted motifs of stucco peacocks, resplendent with their fanned tail feathers painted behind them on the curved arch. This second courtyard lay broad and empty of structures or vegetation. The attendant led the way to the south gate, this one a heavy golden door whose archway was decorated with waves of vibrant green, reminding Bane of a field of unripe winter wheat. Once through, a much larger, landscaped courtyard spread out before him. Here there were gardeners and others moving about—family members perhaps?—enjoying the fresh, breezeless air. All of them turned curious eyes in his direction, but he paid them no heed, staring instead ahead at the palace rising before him at the opposite end of the courtyard. The village that lay beyond the compound walls could not be heard, as if this place were the entire universe and nothing else existed.

Bane guessed this main building to be centuries old, and he wondered how Talia's family had acquired it. Had past generations lived here or had her grandfather ripped it from the grasp of another family? Bane imagined Melisande growing up here, thought of how she had been forced from such wealth and comfort to the horrific world of the pit prison when her secret marriage to the infidel Henri Ducard had been discovered by her father. What if she had been allowed to stay here and later gave birth to Talia? How different Talia's life would be now. Bane frowned; they never would have met.

"Sometimes the memory of your loved one is just poison in your veins," Ducard—or Rā's al Ghūl, as he was known in the League—had once said to Bane in a rare moment of candor. "And one day you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed, so you would be spared your pain."

Though Bane understood Rā's' point, for he knew that agony all too well, he could not imagine ever wishing that he had not met Melisande. Her kindness and beauty had stolen his heart almost immediately. And if she had not been sent to the pit, if she had not lived in the cell next to his, he would have become something else entirely—a true criminal with no humanity—and he would have never been rescued by Rā's al Ghūl following Talia's escape. Without Talia's testimony of Bane's protection, he would have been killed by Rā's and his men, as all the other prisoners save the doctor had been killed once Rā's learned of the prisoners' rape and murder of his wife.

The marble arches of the palace gate soared above Bane now, the passage guarded by two armed men. Their eyes raked him from top to bottom. Soldiers, not mere guards. Mercenaries perhaps. No doubt Melisande's father had only the best men to protect his family and his assets. Rā's al Ghūl had once been counted among such men, favored by Melisande's father until the westerner's carnal betrayal.

Entering the gate, Bane stepped into a large, columned audience hall. Pale reds and golds patterned the ceiling here as they did in Bane's room. Illumination from sunlight through the opened sides, which led to other courtyards, made the hall's crystal chandeliers superfluous during the day, though their beauty caught Bane's admiring eye. His boots echoed on the white marble floors as he passed ivory-colored pillars, his gaze touching upon paintings that depicted ancient conquests. They passed through this cavernous hall and back out into the sun. A few steps more and they were at the door of the palace proper. More armed guards, impassive.

Once inside, the servant led Bane to a broad, sweeping staircase with rich red carpet. He noted other servants, all moving with purpose, dressed immaculately, their eyes widening when they saw the strange-looking guest. Up the winding stairs to an elevator, barely large enough for the two of them. Though an obvious modern addition, the elevator was not, however, overly efficient, ascending far too slowly for Bane who felt claustrophobic in its confines.

Three floors upward, and they debarked, turning right and coming at last to the opened doors of a long veranda that overlooked the last courtyard through which they had traveled. There the servant suddenly turned to Bane, a hand raised to halt him just inside the doors, a stern look on his dark face.

"One moment, sir," the servant said then stepped onto the veranda and moved beyond sight. Bane could hear the servant speaking to someone in Arabic, answered by a male voice. Stiffening, Bane wondered if Melisande's father was with Maysam. An immediate wave of hatred caused Bane's fingers to twitch, and he thought of his pistol, which had been confiscated upon his arrival on the grounds last night.

The servant returned. "Right this way, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Two**

The palace's north-facing veranda received slanting sunlight from the east at this time of year. Stanchions threw long, thin shadows while morning light sifted through decorative screens, reflecting an intricate pattern onto the sandstone tiles. Amidst this contrast of light and dark stood Maysam, dressed in flowing black _abaya_ and a salmon-colored _hijab_, having arisen from a wrought iron table. An austere Arabic man who appeared close to her age also stood near the white table. At the unexpected sight of him, Bane stiffened, and a rush of anger raced through his veins, clenching his fists. Was this Melisande's father? No, surely Maysam would have found a way to keep her spouse away from this meeting.

"_Assalamu_ _'alaykum_," Bane greeted them with a slight bow.

"_Wa 'alaykum us salaam_," the man responded, his expression fraught with something close to revulsion at the sight of Bane's mask.

In contrast, Maysam swept around the table with a broad, welcoming smile, her eyes so like Melisande's, shining with happiness like two burning coals. Considering the strictness of Islam, Bane was surprised when she took his hand in both of hers, saying, "I am so pleased to see you, Haris," using the Arabic name which she had bestowed upon him when they had first met some twelve years ago.

"Maysam," the other man sternly growled, trying to hide his outrage at her boldness.

Without freeing Bane, she shot a look over her shoulder. "Forgive my brother, Haris. Ayman forgets that you are, to me, as cherished as a family member. Now please sit down. You have eaten, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Ayman sputtered, "Sister, I must protest. Your husband—"

"My husband is not here."

"Which is why I am."

"Not any longer. Your presence is unnecessary."

"It is most certainly necessary." Ayman's face had turned an indignant plum color.

Still standing, Bane interjected, "I don't wish to dishonor you."

"Never could you do such a thing," Maysam assured, her stare remaining upon her sibling. "I must remind my brother of the debt we both owe you."

A muscle twitched along Ayman's jawline.

"Now please, brother, leave us."

Maysam's iron resolve in the face of religious tenets made Bane smile behind the mask. It was plain to see where Melisande and Talia had gotten their stubbornness and courage.

With a warning glance at Bane, Ayman grumbled something to himself before finally obeying his sister. Bane had no doubt that Ayman would remain somewhere close at hand.

"Please, Haris," Maysam gestured to a chair.

"Thank you."

Once they were both settled at the little table, Maysam started to pour tea into her cup, but then caught herself and halted. Bane knew she did so out of consideration for his inability to drink through the mask.

"I am so happy to see you again," she smiled. "Though it has been many years since we first met at that horrible clinic, in some ways it seems just like yesterday, no doubt because of Talia's letters. As you probably know, she has kept me abreast of the happenings in your life. She has shared pictures with me as well."

Bane tried to hide his concern over such things, for if Maysam's husband discovered that Melisande had given birth to an infidel's child, there was no telling what measures would be taken to assure that Talia would never attempt to claim any sort of birthright.

"Don't worry, Haris." Maysam's eyes fairly twinkled with conspiracy. "I would never endanger Talia."

Bane shifted his weight, sheepish. "Of course not."

"She got her hands on her father's satellite phone the day after you departed and called me. She was saddened to learn that you had left that morning without saying good-bye. But she said to tell you that she understood why." Now sadness and anger darkened her mild expression. "She told me the reasons behind your departure. I am so sorry it came to this. She is heartbroken as I'm sure you are as well."

To hear someone actually express sympathy and understanding, especially one so far removed from the situation, touched Bane.

"Of course," Maysam continued, "she pleaded with me to send for her, to let her join you here. But I asked of your instructions to her before leaving because I knew you would not want her to abandon her education. It took some prodding on my part—she is a stubborn one, is she not?—but she finally admitted that you had insisted she stay in school."

"I fear she will continue to look for other ways to abandon her studies, if for nothing else than as a way to punish her father."

"Then we must continue to be insistent with her."

Bane frowned. "I won't have much influence now."

"You are mistaken, Haris. You will always have influence over her. She loves you very much; you know that. And she always will."

"As I love her." The words slipped off his tongue too easily. He cleared his throat. "Her father will not approve of her staying in contact with me."

"Perhaps not, but if he is adamant there are ways she can conceal such things; she could contact you through me, for example."

"I don't want to drag you into any of this, ma'am."

She smiled indulgently. "You must call me Maysam."

"I have already taken too many liberties simply by coming here."

"Nonsense. When I first offered my assistance many years ago and so many times since, I meant it, and I am so pleased that you have finally accepted. You do me great honor."

"I'm sure your husband would disagree, especially if he were to see me."

"Although my husband is currently away on business, trust me when I say he would have no _open_ objection to you being here. He knows I have never forgiven him for what he did to our daughter, and he knows you helped her as much as possible when you were both in that terrible place. I kept none of that from him; in fact, I have used it as a weapon against him many times, so often that perhaps now he truly does regret his actions. But, of course, such regret is hollow to me with my daughter long dead." She sighed and lifted her gaze from where it had fallen into her lap. "Talia, however, remains hidden from him. Perhaps when he is an old man I will be able to speak of her."

Bane's fingers twitched. If he had his way, Siddig El Fadil would not live to see old age. But, as usual, he cautioned his impulses, for unknown to Siddig, some of his funds found their way indirectly to Talia. After Rā's al Ghūl learned of the warlord's part in Melisande's imprisonment, the powerful leader of the League of Shadows would have exacted his revenge without mercy if not for Maysam's staying hand. The clever woman had placated Rā's with a promise to have some of her husband's assets funneled to the League in secret, an ongoing source of money. This arrangement not only benefited the League but also allowed Maysam a modicum of revenge on her spouse by supporting Talia financially.

In an even softer voice, Maysam continued, "When Talia escaped that horrible place and came to me, I realized why you had refused my offer of freedom that day I met you." Her smile trembled. "You told me it was because of Melisande; you didn't want to abandon her. But after I learned of Talia's existence, I knew that it was also because of Talia. And Allah be praised that you did return to her, for without you she never would have escaped."

Unused to such flattery, Bane could not look at Maysam, his attention roaming instead across the black and white floor tiles, swept clean and washed, reflecting the sunlight.

"She still has nightmares about that day," Maysam said, "the day of her escape. Has she told you that?"

Unsure of his voice, Bane simply shook his head, remembered his own nightmares of that day. It pained him to hear of Talia's hidden torments; of course she would have kept such things from him; his brave _habibati_.

"But her nightmares aren't about herself, Haris. They are about you, about looking down during her climb and seeing your attackers overwhelm you. She saw your good-bye upon your lips; she said you never cried out, never begged for mercy from your attackers. She said you were like a lamb to slaughter."

Bane's lips twisted wryly beneath the mask; he had certainly never been likened to a lamb before. But of course his Talia would use such benevolent imagery; he was no monster to her.

"It is a terrible burden that she will always bear, knowing how much her freedom cost you and what it continues to cost you."

"I've tried to discourage her from thinking that way," Bane said. "But I know I can't stop those feelings, no more than I can stop how I feel about Melisande's death—I wish I could have saved her, I wish I could have saved them both. I'm sorry."

Maysam placed her warm hand over his and waited until he dragged his gaze back to her. "You have already apologized to me too many times over the years, Haris. No more. There is no need." She withdrew her hand. "Now let us speak no more of the past but instead of your future." She settled back in her chair. "You are no stranger to the reality of my husband's enterprises. Such enterprises require trustworthy, trained men. Talia has told me of your leadership qualities as well as your superior physical skills. But because I know you would be loath to work directly for my husband, I instead would have you work for me, as one of my personal bodyguards. As it turns out, one of my men will be leaving soon, so your timing is fortuitous."

Surprised, Bane took a moment to consider his response, not wanting to offend in any way. "Your offer is a generous one. I am deeply honored. But, in truth, I think it would be best if I kept my distance from your husband. I am neither a forgiving nor a tolerant man. I hope my declination does not offend you."

With a dismissing wave of her hand, Maysam said, "Of course not; I understand, and I appreciate your candor. But won't you consider it at least as a temporary post until I am able to find other employment for you?"

"If you have no other options at this time… Yet surely your husband's men could provide me with contacts to known mercenaries, for I am afraid that is all I am suited to in this world."

Maysam's solicitous expression displayed her maternal side. "Haris, both Talia and I know you are so much more than merely a hired gun. You must give me time to investigate other avenues of employment. If I had known about your situation sooner—but of course how could any of us have known?—I would already have acquired other alternatives for you."

"Sister," Ayman's gruff voice turned them both toward the door. "Barsad is here to see you." Ayman looked pleased with this interruption, no doubt wanting to show Bane that he was not always cowed by his sibling.

Irritation twitched one of Maysam's eyebrows, and she seemed about to speak in anger toward her brother, but then a sudden thought banished the harshness, and her glance touched upon Bane. "Thank you, brother. Please have him join us."

Surprise momentarily immobilized Ayman, and only a directing look from Maysam was able to send him back inside.

"Perhaps," Maysam said with a smile that stirred Bane's curiosity, "the alternative we were hoping for has just presented itself."

When Ayman reappeared at the door, escorting another man, it was clear that he would no longer leave his sister alone. Bane sensed that his intent was not out of fear or distrust of this newcomer but instead out of familiarity—he would not allow his sister to wield any power over him in front of someone who knew them. Tolerating it before a stranger had been difficult enough but easily forgotten once the stranger was gone.

"Barsad," Maysam said, both she and Bane having stood upon the man's arrival, "please join us."

The smile that had started upon Barsad's thin, defined lips—a smile for Maysam, of course—had instantly vanished when he saw Bane. The man's hooded, pale blue eyes quickly masked his surprise at seeing not only a stranger alone with Maysam but one of such disturbing appearance. More than surprise actually; alarm, instinctive and strong, so strong that he took a step toward Bane before catching himself.

"My apologies, ma'am," Barsad said with a slight bow. "I wasn't aware you had a…visitor. I can come back later—"

"There's no need," Maysam insisted. "In fact, your timing is perfect."

Confusion wrinkled Barsad's high, broad forehead.

"Please, gentlemen." Maysam gestured to the chairs, returning to her own.

Remaining on the veranda, Ayman was wise enough to at least sit apart from the other three, enough to placate his sister who wisely made no attempt to banish him a second time.

Barsad settled between Bane and Maysam, his focus always on the former. Protective, almost defiant…and certainly not intimidated by the muscular stranger. Obviously one of her bodyguards, Bane figured, slightly taken aback not only by the man's lack of fear but by the way he viewed the mask—not with repugnancy but with intense curiosity, almost fascination. Not an Arab, Bane thought, though the man's Arabic was fluent; no, not even European…a westerner it would seem, perhaps American. Thinking of the few Americans whom he had known, Bane wanted to dislike him but found Barsad's obvious courage compelling. He guessed him to be younger than he but not by much. An obvious soldier in bearing and style, though currently dressed casually. A pistol at his hip, angled away from Bane's reach.

"Barsad, this is Bane, the man who arrived last night."

Without hesitation, Barsad offered his hand. He took note of Bane's leather wrist brace as Bane accepted his strong grip.

Maysam poured a cup of tea for her latest guest. "Barsad has commanded my husband's security forces for the past five years. Unfortunately he is also the man of whom I spoke when I told you one of our men was leaving soon. It seems life here has become a bit too mundane for our soldier of fortune." She said it with a smile of regret, though not begrudging the man's decision.

"In this case," Barsad said, tasting the tea, "mundane is a good thing, yes?"

Maysam chuckled and blushed slightly, surprising Bane and providing a glimpse into her past when she was once Melisande's age. "Yes, it signifies peace and prosperity. Two things that make Barsad uncomfortable."

Now it was Barsad's turn to chuckle, and Bane realized the man was more to Maysam than just a mercenary. There was a definite friendship between them, a warmth. This alone put Bane more at ease with the stranger.

"So he is to leave us soon. Bound for the north, to Kashmir, is it not?"

"Yes, ma'am." Caution had returned to Barsad's heavy-lidded eyes.

"Perhaps Bane and I could convince you to take him with you. He is in need of work. And knowing your resourcefulness, Barsad, I'm sure you will be doing something lucrative in Kashmir. Otherwise, why would you leave this beautiful sun and warmth?"

All amusement fled Barsad now, though he was judicious enough not to voice the whole truth of his inner reaction. "It was my understanding from what you told me before his arrival that our masked friend would be serving you, ma'am."

"That is what I had hoped. But it seems the…climate here would not be suitable to him. He comes from a mountainous region, don't you, Bane? No doubt the mountains of Kashmir would be most agreeable to him."

Bane felt no more at ease with this potential scenario than Barsad apparently did, but he did not want to hurt Maysam in any way or seem ungrateful, especially in front of her ever-watchful brother. So he maintained his silence, content to observe the two and let this conversation play out without his interference or opinion.

"Bane has years of experience in the field," Maysam continued lightly, as if convincing a chef to take on a new cook. "International experience. Combat experience. Multiple languages. You will find him very much a man after your own heart, Barsad, I assure you." Maysam turned her focus to Bane. "I have no doubt Barsad would have fit in well with the men to whom you are accustomed, Haris. And you will not find a better shot, at any range, with any weapon."

One corner of Barsad's mouth twitched with good humor. "I will have you know, Bane, that Maysam has a reputation in this region for matchmaking. It appears her skills reach even into the ranks of the paramilitary."

When Maysam laughed, her cheeks coloring once again, neither man could keep from joining in.

"Forgive me," she said. "I don't wish to force either of you to do something you are not comfortable with. But you both know me well enough to trust my judgment surely?"

"There are few whose judgment I trust more," Barsad said with that almost private smile between them, one that made Ayman clear his throat unhappily.

"Then you will think about it? Both of you? And perhaps later, after such consideration, you can discuss it between yourselves." Her arched eyebrows lifted hopefully, and the smile came again. "Without the presence of a meddling old woman, yes?"


	3. Chapter 3

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Three**

The sun had fallen behind the surrounding rocky hills, and Bane's supper had been eaten before he saw Barsad again. He had almost given up on the man and looked forward to an early retreat to that wonderful bed when his servant came to him on the veranda and interrupted his peaceful solitude.

"Barsad is here to see you, sir. Shall I ask him to return in the morning?"

"No, Hisham," Bane said, not looking away from his crocheting. "Show him in."

Hisham hesitated, and Bane could feel his bemused gaze upon the needlework before he retreated.

When Melisande had first taught Bane to crochet in prison, the other inmates' derision made it abundantly clear to him that such handiwork was considered feminine. Even though they saw the practical value of what he created—blankets for himself as well as for Talia, baby booties, hats, socks—they maintained that they would not be caught dead indulging in a woman's hobby. Bane had absorbed their abuses at first, but once he was strong enough to physically discourage his tormentors, such mockery was then carried out mainly beyond his hearing. After Rā's al Ghūl had rescued him, Bane maintained his craft through his years in the League. Just as Melisande had foretold when she had first tutored him in the art, the practiced movement of his fingers with the hook and yarn brought peace to him, settling him and allowing the day's troubles to slide away. Temujin—his mentor, teacher, and closest friend in the League—had encouraged the hobby, knowing its value to his pupil's overactive mind.

At the thought of Temujin, Bane frowned; the Mongol's death two weeks ago still weighed heavily on his heart. The events surrounding Temujin's murder had led to Bane's excommunication, but even the pain of exile could not rival his grief for his friend. He paused in his work, stared toward the shadowy bulk of the main palace where several rooms were lit from within. If Temujin were here now, no doubt he would point out how fitting it was that Bane was crocheting a mere stone's throw from Melisande's childhood bedroom. Once again he wished Temujin had met Melisande but, alas, the Mongol had not arrived in the pit prison until years after her passing.

Bane did not leave his comfortable padded wicker chair on the veranda when he heard Hisham admit Barsad into the room, nor did he stir as the man's footsteps crossed over to the veranda. When his guest halted on the threshold, Bane gave him only a glance before returning his attention to his work, purposefully allowing Barsad to see him crocheting so he could gauge the man.

"Am I interrupting?"

Bane gestured to a nearby chair.

"Mind if I smoke?"

Bane grunted, which Barsad took as acquiescence, for he dug a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket.

"Tobacco is a weakness," Bane stated with another measuring glance.

"Maybe so," Barsad responded pragmatically as he lit up. "But then we all have some sort of weakness, don't we?"

A worthy answer, Bane thought with a noncommittal second grunt.

Barsad forsook the chair for the veranda railing, which he leaned one elbow on in a portrait of insouciance. He had a natural ease about him, though Bane sensed that he should not mistake this for carelessness or laziness. No, it was the practice of one used to enjoying every little luxury or moment of peace that came his way, a practice acquired through combat and frequent hardship. Bane understood this all too well. And there was confidence in Barsad's bearing that did not stretch into arrogance as it did with so many other men.

Surprisingly Barsad did not open the conversation, leaving only the sounds of courtyard insects and bats to occupy the auditory space between the two men. Barsad took his time enjoying the cigarette, leisurely jetting smoke away from the light spilling from the room and into the darkening night; stars had begun to prick the sky over the main palace. Never had Bane met someone who seemed so unaffected when first alone in his presence…or should he say the mask's presence?

"So what interests you in Kashmir?" Bane asked.

"There are rumors of an upcoming incursion by Pakistani forces across the Line of Control. Are you familiar with the LOC?"

"Yes; Asia's Berlin Wall, so to speak. The _de facto_ border between the Northern Area and the Jammu and Kashmir regions."

"Kashmiri militants are looking for fighters. It's suspected they will be utilized in such an incursion. They know the area intimately, of course, and are suited to mountain fighting, having been born and bred in the region."

"Why would the Kashmiris throw their lot in with Pakistan?"

"The LOS divides Kashmir and has forced the separation of villages and families. Equally important, it closed off the Jehlum valley route in and out of Kashmir Valley. You can imagine the ramifications to the local economy. Of course, there are other reasons as well. Every conflict has nuances and subplots. But they're always about the same thing in the end: greed."

Bane nodded to himself, surprised by some of the veiled emotion behind Barsad's words. "Where are you from?" Bane asked, finishing another stitch before letting the crochet rest in his lap.

Barsad removed the cigarette and stared for a moment at its glowing tip. "West Virginia originally. The States. Grew up there. Left when I joined the army out of high school. Never been back."

"No desire?"

"No money in West Virginia. Not much to do but dig coal." A slight grin raised one corner of his mouth. "I'm not keen on going underground."

Bane's mask hid his sardonic grin when he thought of his own early, subterranean life. Perhaps he could become a miner if things did not work out. He almost laughed at the thought.

"Seems you have some experience in surviving underground," Barsad probed.

Bane's grin died. "What has Maysam told you?"

Barsad took a long pull on the cigarette then flicked the ash over the railing. "Only what she deemed necessary, I'm sure. She's a cautious woman, not just for herself but for those she cares about."

"So what has she said?"

The American was stone sober now. "She told me how you helped her daughter in prison. She told me how she met you, how she found you in that clinic, the shape you were in after your failed escape attempt. She said she offered you freedom, but you refused it to return to her daughter."

Bane stared out at the shadowy palace. "Is her daughter's imprisonment common knowledge? I would not have guessed it so."

"No, not common knowledge. What happened to Melisande is not known beyond the family."

"Yet you are not family."

Barsad returned the cigarette to his lips and made a short humming sound, his eyelids flickering. "No. No, I'm not. But my duties have brought me into the family's inner circle, and over the years Maysam has shared certain…burdens with me. Of course she hasn't gone into great detail, but I know enough to understand the relationship she has with her husband. And she's told me enough to understand why she wants to help you and why she wants _me_ to help you."

"I haven't said I need your help."

Barsad stifled a wry smile and was careful to only glance at Bane. "And I haven't said I would help you."

Bane considered the man's parry, nodded to himself, thought, _Touché_.

"But if you truly didn't need my help," Barsad continued, "then why did you invite me in?"

Again his words betrayed no conceit, revealing instead staid curiosity. Barsad flicked the remains of his cigarette into the darkness below then faced Bane, leaning back against the veranda railing, arms crossed. The slight playfulness had vanished, replaced by the stolid visage of a soldier.

"Fair enough," Bane rumbled as he set his needlework on a small table beside him. "It has already been established that I am looking for a new path, and my options are few. Though I know nearly nothing about you, I trust Maysam's judgment implicitly, and thus I must trust you…for now."

Barsad's shallow nod underscored that this tenuous trust worked both ways. "She said you are accustomed to mountain terrain."

"Yes."

"So I'm assuming your mask doesn't…" He searched for the appropriate word, one pointing finger waggling as if to aid his search.

"Impede me?" Bane offered caustically.

"Yes."

"It provides certain challenges, true enough, but nothing I am incapable of overcoming."

"Maysam said it delivers a painkilling agent."

"It does."

"And where will you find this painkiller in the mountains of Kashmir?"

"I have several months' supply with me."

"And when it runs out?"

Slight irritation lowered Bane's brow. "This…impediment is my own; it will not become yours."

Barsad brought his finger to his lips in a gesture of growing interest as he studied the mask. "Its construction, its design, seems a bit flawed. It can't be that durable."

Bane allowed, "It has been replaced a couple of times after suffering some damage in the field."

"Hmm."

Barsad now drew closer, bent down so the mask was at eye level. He tilted his head this way and that to get a better look at the mask's front and sides. Displeased with being examined like a piece of hardware, Bane would have stood up to escape the scrutiny if such an action would not expose his emotions to this stranger. Instead he delivered a pointed glare that compelled Barsad to straighten but not retreat.

"There are stronger materials available that would make it more durable," Barsad said. "And the mask tends to garble your voice; there are ways to amplify and clarify."

Bane only continued to stare at him, feeling slightly put upon by the authority in the American's voice.

Barsad shrugged at him as if to dismiss the irritation. "I have a friend who's a bit of a genius when it comes to engineering and invention. If you want, I could put in a call to him. He's in New Dehli."

"Why is it any concern of yours?"

"Well, if you're going to be coming with me, I'm someone who believes in having the best…equipment available. Wouldn't want your mask giving out on you in the middle of nowhere. Sounds like you've had the resources in the past for such contingencies, but once we leave here, you and I will have little beyond the resources of our own hands, at least for a while."

"I haven't decided if I'm coming with you."

Barsad drifted back to the railing, a small, patient smile giving a glimpse of his blunt teeth. "You and I both know you can't stay here; you hate Saddig too much. As head of his security, I couldn't in good conscience allow you to stay here, even if you wanted to. I've said as much to Maysam."

"You've resigned your position. What do you care of what happens here after you're gone?"

Barsad's smile vanished. "Like you, I care about Maysam. She may not love her husband or mourn his death when it comes, but she's tied to his fortunes. I've spent the last five years protecting that; I won't see it destroyed."

"Why do you care so much about Maysam?"

"For the same reason you do. She doesn't see your mask when she looks at you, like everyone else does, does she? No, she sees beyond that. There aren't many people with that ability, that inherent kindness, especially someone whose own life has had its share of brutality and grief. When I first came here, I was pretty desperate, like you. She saw something in me that I didn't even see myself. And she took the time to uncover that and give me back my life."

"Then why are you leaving?"

Barsad relaxed with a shrug. "Like she said, I'm not too comfortable with peace. This is the longest I've ever stayed in one place. I'm getting antsy. Sounds like you're a man who can understand that."

Bane shifted his weight, his back protesting his lengthy stay in the chair.

Barsad gestured to the broad, rigid Kevlar belt that encircled Bane's waist. "I take it the brace is because of your surgery?"

"Butchery might be a better word for it," Bane allowed before catching himself. He stood, hiding his stiffness the best he could, and regarded Barsad for a long moment. "I shall consider your offer and have an answer for you tomorrow. When do you leave?"

The shrug came again. "Whenever I like."

"Very well."

"Shall I phone my friend in New Dehli? We would be passing through there on our way north. And even if you decide not to come to Kashmir with me, you could stay with him for a few days. I'm sure he would love the challenge of designing a new mask for you. And in the meantime, he might be able to find you work."

Bane hid his surprise over Barsad's generosity, not wanting to be so indebted to anyone, especially an American. "I'll think about it."

Barsad's tight smile and nod acknowledged Bane's stubbornness, a stubbornness that he seemed to know no amount of persuasion could sway. "Good night then. Until tomorrow."

Bane listened to Barsad's footfalls recede through the suite, followed by the door shutting behind him. His fingers twitched with sudden restlessness and agitation. All thoughts of sleep had fled, and he returned to his chair, picking up the hook and yarn. He stared at the makings of the brown scarf. Why had he begun making such a thing? He would have no need of it here, so near the desert.

No, no need of it here, he considered, but the mountains of Kashmir were another matter.


	4. Chapter 4

**INTO THE FIRE**

Four

The noise of New Dehli rose to meet Bane as he stepped out onto the apartment's balcony, some twelve stories up. He stretched and yawned behind the mask, basking in the morning sunlight, squinting. A cool morning, but one promising warmth later. He leaned on the railing, listened to the voice of the city, studying the surrounding buildings with their varied architecture. This time of day the air was more acceptable to him; like Shanghai—the scene of his final mission with the League of Shadows—New Dehli had notoriously poor air quality, something that was a challenge to his mask. Well, perhaps soon that problem would be rectified…or at least improved, for Malik had said his new mask would be ready today.

Bane considered Malik, their Indian host. A bit nervous and fidgety, but sharp-minded. Once Malik had left the military, he had worked for the government for several years, something related to their nuclear program—his explanation had been fragmented and vague, and Bane had not pressed, though he had a feeling from Barsad's deliberate look that his American companion knew the details. As Barsad had foretold, Malik had been fascinated by Bane's mask and had eagerly set about designing one more efficient in function as well as durability.

Both Malik and Barsad were still asleep when Bane had left his blankets that morning (he slept on the living room floor while Barsad snored away on the couch). Barsad had been out late the night before—Bane did not ask of his business—and Malik had been holed up in his room, diligently clattering away on his computer. Bane had remained at the apartment, content to crochet and watch television. He had to admit to a slight fascination with television, for his life had allowed for few such amenities. In prison, the doctor had a small black and white television which often did not work and when it did it received only a fuzzy feed from the BBC. But Bane had spent hours in Assad's cell, watching and learning about the strange world of light far beyond the dark realm of the pit, dreaming that one day he would escape and be a part of it. Yet even after his escape and after seven years had passed, he never truly felt a part of that world.

He did not always remain in the apartment, though. Since coming to New Dehli two weeks ago, he had often ventured out to explore the city. He had been here two times before while a member of the League, but his duties had kept him from enjoying the culture and the many places of note like the Red Fort, Qutb Minar, or the National Museum. Bane's interests amused Barsad who found little appeal in such wanderings.

Of course during his explorations, Bane and his mask were subject to the typical looks of fear and repulsion from New Dehli's teeming population. When he had first escaped prison, such reactions had disturbed and almost saddened him, but those emotions had quickly faded, swallowed by a growing disdain for the narrow-minded. Eventually he came to relish these expressions, drawing strength from the knowledge that he intimidated without saying a word. Rā's al Ghūl had once told him: "You must bask in the fear of other men." Rā's had been the first to recognize that Bane's mask, the very thing that deprived him of society's acceptance, could be used as a weapon, a weapon of fear.

Bane sank into a chair on the balcony, his stomach growling for breakfast. He ignored this, however, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, allowing his mind to stray, and such digressions always began and ended with Talia. When he had awoken that morning, he had been dreaming about her, about their lovemaking. Such dreams were always bittersweet to him, for since leaving the League, he expected to rarely if ever see her again. After all, her powerful father had ambitious plans for her. After graduating from Le Rosey, a world-renown private school in Switzerland, she would attend Oxford University. After that, she would go to America, and there—if Rā's al Ghūl's plans succeeded—she would marry Gotham City's favored son, billionaire Bruce Wayne. Once so highly placed, she would manipulate Wayne and his vast fortune to not only benefit the League but to eventually bring about the destruction of America's most corrupt and irredeemable city.

It was Bane's contention of Rā's' nefarious matchmaking that had ultimately been the last straw in the two men's relationship. Now that he was removed from the situation, Bane feared for Talia's future. Of course once he had exposed her father's plans to Talia, she had vehemently vowed to never marry Wayne or any man whom she did not love. But Bane understood Rā's' determination and power more than Talia ever could, and thus he was not so convinced of Talia being able to hold to her word.

Bane had shared his concerns with Maysam who easily comprehended the discomfort of arranged marriages. But she had cautioned against putting the proverbial cart before the horse, considering how young Talia still was.

"It has been difficult these past few years," he had confided. "I was so accustomed to protecting her in prison that once we were free and she was with her father, I still had trouble entrusting her to someone else's care. Truth be told, I still do. I promised Melisande that I would protect Talia. To me, that is a vow for as long as Talia lives, no matter who else is in her life. I will always worry about her."

"When you reach New Dehli, you must purchase a mobile phone, so I can stay in touch with you, Haris. I can keep you informed about Talia. Perhaps that will ease your concerns. I know you will not always be in a location where you have reception, but when you are, we will be able to talk." She paused. "I will worry about you, of course, and so will Talia." Then she smiled sadly. "And perhaps in time you will call Talia yourself."

He had previously told to her that he thought it best if he kept distant from Talia. He feared more than anything that she would forsake her education to spite her father and join him. He did not want to mistakenly provide her with any such opportunity. If she could not find him, she could not join him.

Bane left the balcony and headed for the bathroom to shower before his companions could awaken. He took his time, having injected himself with enough morphine to see him through his morning ablutions. Meticulously he shaved the scarred remains of his face where random patches of beard still managed to make a regular appearance, and then he did the same to his head, a usual ritual to ensure the tight fit of his mask. And he wanted his skin particularly smooth today for fitting the new mask. At the thought, his fingers twitched with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. He was so accustomed to his current mask that he saw it as a permanent part of himself, like an arm or a leg. So the thought of something replacing it gave him pause.

Distantly he heard the ring of a phone, paid no attention to it, figuring it was Barsad's. But then he heard the American's voice just outside the bathroom door.

"Phone for you, Bane."

Of course that could mean only one person: Maysam. Instinctive concern hurried Bane. "I'll be out in just a minute."

"Says her name is Talia."

Bane startled, cutting his scalp with the razor, drawing a soft curse. His shocked eyes stared back at him in the mirror above the sink.

"You want me to tell her you'll call back?"

"No!" He dropped the razor into the sink and hastily reached for a towel.

Bane jerked the door open so suddenly that Barsad took a surprised step back. Then, seeing the exposed ruin of Bane's face, he dropped his gaze back to the cell phone in his hand. This was not the first time he had seen Bane without the mask, for he had been there when Malik had taken a lifecast of his head in preparation for fitting the mask, but the sudden, unexpected appearance now took him unaware, and he seemed determined not to make Bane feel uncomfortable or self-conscious.

Taking the phone, Bane—dressed only in sweatpants—headed for the balcony as he spoke. "Talia?" A slight delay, a lag of excruciating length in which he repeated her name with even more urgency.

"Bane? Bane, is that you?"

"Yes. Can you hear me?"

"Yes; yes, that's better. Where are you?"

He closed the sliding glass door behind him, his hands trembling. "I'm in India. Where are you?"

"At school."

Bane glanced at the rising sun. "But it's early there. You should be asleep."

"I wanted to call you before I got up for class so we have time to talk."

He paced back and forth. "Did your grandmother give you my number?" He shook his head—what a stupid question; of course Maysam did.

"Yes. She didn't want to; she said you didn't want me to know how to find you." Even through this connection, hurt made its way through her words.

"I'm sorry, Talia; I just want to make sure you stay in school."

"I know; that's what Grandmama said. But that's what Papa wants, too, and I'm so angry with him that I—"

"_Habibati_," Bane said in as calming a voice as he could muster, "you don't have to stay in school for the sake of your father. Do it for yourself; do it for me."

"Will you come visit? I miss you so much."

He closed his eyes against the pain. "I miss you, too. And I hope to see you again, but for now we are each where we need to be. Do you understand?"

Bane heard her slight huff on the end of the line, then a pause before she asked, "Where in India are you?"

"Your grandmother didn't tell you?" he tested.

"No. She said you told her not to."

Bane nodded to himself, pleased to have his belief in Maysam validated. "It doesn't matter where I am; I won't be here much longer. I am waiting on a new mask, which I should receive today, then I will be leaving."

"A new mask? Did something happen to the old one? Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine. This one is a new design."

"You must send me pictures."

"When I can."

"Grandmama said you left with one of her men. What's he like? Is he the man who answered your phone?"

"Yes." Bane glanced over his shoulder into the apartment where Barsad was sitting up on the couch, his blankets shoved aside, and a cup of coffee now in his hands. He had been watching Bane and did not try to hide the fact by looking away; instead he lifted his coffee as if in tribute and gave a wry, knowing smile. Bane stiffened slightly when he realized what the man had assumed about the female caller. "So far, he is acceptable. Time will tell. But your grandmother thinks highly of him. She seems to believe we will work well enough."

A hint of Talia's usual impishness could be heard in her light laugh. "Did she warn him that you don't play well with others?"

The return of her good humor instantly led his thoughts astray, and he felt a stirring in his loins. "I play well enough," he said in a lower, heavier voice. "Or did you find me lacking on our last night?" He grinned a grin that he knew would be ghastly should anyone behold it.

"Bane!" Talia said with mock astonishment then laughed softly, no doubt not wanting to awaken her roommate. "Of course not. You could never be lacking…in anything. And now that I've been with a _man_, I find the _boys_ here uninteresting, unappealing. I will be so bored without you."

"Talia," Bane scolded, though with little true effort, for on the point of selfish pleasure, he would be forever satisfied knowing she might never let another of Le Rosey's pampered rich boys touch her. "You must at least play the part there. Those boys will one day be men of wealth, and we or your father may have need of them. I know you well enough to know you can be at least a good actress."

"Father," she scoffed, her tone instantly sour again. "I won't be doing him any favors. You should have seen his face when I told him we had sex."

Bane nearly choked. "You what?"

"I told him. Of course I did. The day you left. I was crying after I found you had left without saying good-bye."

"Talia, I had to—"

"I know, _habibi_. I understood. But that didn't make it any easier. So when Father found me crying, he said more hateful things about you; called you a monster again. So I told him. And I told him that _he_ was the monster and that you have more love inside you than he ever could, especially for me. And that you had shown me as much when I had gone into your room the night before. Serves him right. Remember when we first came to the League, when I was younger, and he always rebuked me when I would snuggle in bed with you? He never really understood, even though he knew we had shared a bed since Mama's death. How could he not understand?"

"Talia." Bane hesitated, cleared his throat, her revelation to her father taking his response in several conflicting directions. "We talked about this before I left, about you not losing your father's favor. I understand you're angry with him, and—trust me—I appreciate your defense of me. But before you speak in anger with him again, you must caution yourself. Like it or not, he is your guardian, both physically and financially."

"I was just fine with you as my guardian."

"Things are different now; it's not just you and me, and we aren't in prison. I can't be those things for you any longer."

"Don't say that, _habibi_."

"It's the truth."

"It may be, but I hate hearing you say it."

Bane frowned. "You should be sleeping instead of talking to me. You will fall asleep in class later."

"I want to hear what you've been doing since you left. Where are you going after you get your mask?"

"I can't tell you."

"Will you at least promise to call me?"

"I won't be able to. It's a remote location."

She groaned slightly. "If you don't tell me, I shall worry even more. What if something happens to you and you need help? How would I find you?"

"There will be no need. However, if you have an emergency, you must contact your grandmother and let her know. She will find a way to reach me. But, Talia, mind what I've said—an _emergency_; something your father isn't able to help you with. Understand? I will be far from you."

Sadness quieted her; he could feel it as if she were standing here beside him, as he wished she were. "I understand," she murmured at last.

"Good. Now you should hang up and try to get some sleep before you have to get up for class."

"I don't want to hang up. Can't we keep talking?"

"No, _habibati_. You must focus on school, not me."

"I don't want to," she mumbled as if into her pillow. He imagined her wild hair splayed around her. "We should be together."

"There is nothing I want more, little mouse. But we can't cry over spilt milk, as they say. Now say good-bye."

"No."

"Say it."

She gave a small whimper.

"Then I will say it."

"No."

He sighed to himself. "Good-bye, _habibati_." He frowned down at the street below. "Always know that I love you, that I always will."

With a slight tremble in her voice, she responded, "I love you, too." Then in a near whisper, "Good-bye."

Bane remained on the balcony for some time after ending the call, staring out over the city, trying to settle his emotions. Perhaps he should not have taken the call but instead avoid all contact with Talia as he had planned. _Weak_, he berated himself, _you are weak_. And worse yet, Barsad had heard her voice. Surely Maysam had never told the American about her granddaughter, and if she had, no doubt Barsad would have told him as much. He remembered Barsad's knowing look and small smile minutes ago. Mere conjecture on the American's part, of course; what else could it be if Maysam had not revealed Talia's existence?

For a moment Bane closed his eyes, tried to slow the beat of his heart, stirred so by the conversation. And in that private darkness he saw her; she came to him as she had come to him that last night—a mysterious shape, small and gliding, dressed only in a short kimono. As he remembered the exquisite fabric beneath his touch and the soft warmth of her flesh, his fingers twitched, that restless tick of his, always so prevalent, something he had to consciously suppress around others, for it was the only thing besides his eyes that could give away the turmoil within. Another weakness.

So Talia had told Rā's about them. Bane could only imagine the man's outrage. After all, he was fifteen years older than Talia, and in Rā's' eyes his daughter was still a child. But even worse than that to Rā's would be Bane's unworthiness. Bane was no Bruce Wayne. Rā's viewed Bane as nothing more than a soldier in his covert army. A pawn in a game of international chess, and Talia the queen. Although Rā's held a certain gratefulness for Bane's protection of Melisande and Talia in prison, he could never get beyond the fact that Bane's mere presence reminded him of his own failings when it came to his family; he would forever blame himself for Melisande's imprisonment and nightmarish death.

Bane cursed these memories, low and harsh behind the mask, then returned inside. There was Barsad still on the couch, leisurely enjoying his coffee. After the coffee would come the usual morning cigarette. Such a vile habit, and one that irritated Bane through his mask. Barsad did not smoke excessively, true enough—usually only one cigarette after each meal—but Bane hoped he could break him of the habit altogether or that their time in the remote reaches of Kashmir would see an end to his supply.

As if reading Bane's mind, Barsad tapped the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table before him. "Swore off the things when I started to work for Siddig. I itch for them when I'm bored, though. Hopefully after you get your mask today, we can be on our way, yes?"

Still distracted in his thoughts, Bane grunted and nodded before stepping into the kitchen.

"Everything all right with the girl?" Barsad called leadingly.

Bane stared at the phone still in his hand. He tried to gauge Barsad's question without being able to see the man. It was not like the American to openly pry; Bane appreciated that about him, especially this early in their relationship. So what was in his voice? Sarcasm? Concern? Concern, Bane figured. After all, going into combat with another man, you wanted to be assured that your mate was focused upon the task at hand.

"Yes," Bane called at last, his tone purposefully apathetic. He left it at that and reached to pour a cup of coffee. He would allow himself this small comfort before he had to don his mask once again. After all, he needed it.


	5. Chapter 5

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Five**

Bane's fingers twitched as Malik tantalizingly held up the new mask. Sunlight flashed against the smooth indigo surface of the side moldings as he turned it this way and that, proudly pointing and explaining the virtues of the design.

"Though it's more substantial than your older mask," Malik said, handing it to Bane at last, "the titanium makes it lighter…and stronger. The material of the headpiece as well as there at the rear is much more breathable than the leather of your old mask, and it will better conform to the shape of your head, similar to a wetsuit. The two canisters are more streamlined as well but are capable of containing a twenty-four-hour supply of your crystals. And if you look inside the mouthpiece, you will see a tiny microphone and microchip that will not only amplify your voice but will clarify some of the…distortion created by your injuries."

"I like the color," Barsad said with trenchant wit, grinning from where he stood leaning on the balcony's railing. Bane gave him a sharp glance, then realized Barsad was simply bullshitting him as was his wont. Early on in their fledgling relationship, Bane had discovered Barsad had a dry sense of humor. The American seemed to enjoy Bane's oft bemused looks in response to something said in jest. Sometimes the teasing reminded Bane of his former relationship with Temujin. The Mongol had always pushed the envelope, unafraid of tweaking his student where others would not dare. "You are too serious for your own good, my young bull," Temujin had often scolded.

This new mask was indeed more formidable, more functional, and—as he had requested—a bit intimidating to look upon. Like the previous mask, the drug was administered through tubing that connected two rear canisters with the front of the mask—two lines running on either side of the headpiece that bisected his shaved skull and two others, one a side, running along the bottom of the mask. The front of the mask put Bane in mind of a large spider, for eight silver, jointed tubes distributing the drug fed from top and bottom—four apiece—into the center of the mouthpiece like an arachnid's legs. Two longer tubes on either side also distributed the drug from the headpiece feeds, while on either side of his chin shorter titanium fixtures flooded the mask from below.

"With the increase in the number of connections," Malik continued, touching each of the silver pieces at the front of the mask, "you will have an increase in the flow of the drug. It will utilize the crystals much more efficiently." He paused and frowned. "I'm afraid I could not improve your ability to hear through the mask, though. To improve upon that would have compromised the strength of the side pieces, and I knew that was more important to you."

Bane nodded.

"Having the lifecast to work with should have greatly increased the efficiency of the seals," Malik said. "I could make exact calculations. You will, of course, find it tight, much tighter in some respects because of that."

Bane scowled at the memory of the lifecast—the lengthy time spent in the chair, sitting as immobile as he possibly could as Malik applied the material, conforming it exactly to every nuance of his head. A claustrophobic feeling, reminding Bane of the very first time he had donned a mask, the panic that had ensued, the fears that he could neither live with or without the cursed thing. How differently he viewed the mask now. A part of him. A frightful weapon. Something that set him apart from any other human being. That, added to his formidable height and weight, made him something to be reckoned with physically. Even his gait had conformed to this persona—lumbering, heavy, made so by his bulk as well as by the extensive injuries he had suffered to his back from his fall in the prison shaft.

Bane handed the mask to Malik and proceeded to remove the old apparatus. As usual, Malik did not flinch at the heinous ruin of Bane's face, nor did Barsad who watched closely as the inventor carefully fitted the new mask. As soon as it was in place, Malik activated the canisters, and the mask breathed a gentle sigh as the drug began to circulate. Bane inhaled deeply, too deeply; he began to choke and cough.

"Breathe normally," Malik admonished. "As I said, this mask delivers more of the drug than the other, so you can breathe more easily and still achieve the same results."

Malik went over the mask thoroughly to make sure it clutched Bane's head completely. It was indeed vice-like, more so than the previous. He could already feel a headache coming on.

"The material on the underside, against your cheeks and alongside your head will not breakdown from perspiration." Malik glanced at Barsad. "Though it sounds like where you are going perspiration won't be a concern anyway. Of course you must still clean and disinfect it regularly. Now speak so we can test the microphone."

His words did indeed sound clearer and stronger, so strong in fact that he had to modulate his volume, having become so accustomed to speaking loudly in order to be heard through the old mask. He looked to Barsad for his reaction. The American raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded favorably.

"Definite improvement," he said. "No more Mr. Mumbles." Barsad's deadpan expression gave way to a quick grin.

Bane scowled slightly, caught Malik's quick effort to douse his own amusement. Thinking of his nemesis in the League of Shadows—a man named Damien Chase—Bane grumbled, "Are all Americans such cheeky bastards?"

Barsad only chuckled.

"Give your head a vigorous shake, my friend," Malik directed. "Let us make sure there is no slippage."

Bane could not see how the mask would move a hair's breadth, considering how tightly it clung to him, like some metallic leach. But he tested it thoroughly and was satisfied. In fact, he felt an immediate surge of confidence.

"It will withstand extremes of both heat and cold with no significant expansion or contraction," Malik assured.

"But will it withstand hand to hand combat?" Bane asked.

"That was one of your stipulations, was it not?" Malik chided.

Unconvinced, Bane turned to Barsad. "Hit me."

Now all frivolity vanished from Barsad, and he straightened from the railing. "Hit you? And break my hand on that thing?"

"Put gloves on."

Barsad eyed him. "And who's to say you won't rip my arms out of their sockets once I piss you off?"

"You'll piss me off sooner if you don't hit me."

Barsad exchanged an uneasy glance with Malik who was obviously not about to offer to take Barsad's place.

"Let us go inside where there's more room," Bane invited, leading the way. The others, however, he found anchored still to the balcony when he turned around. "Come on then. The sooner we test this thing, the sooner we can leave."

Reluctant, Barsad shuffled inside, followed by Malik, who lingered slightly behind the American as if to hide.

"Tape your knuckles if you must, but let's get on with it," Bane growled.

Seeing that Bane would not relent, Barsad swallowed and shrugged, some of his typical looseness returning. "As you wish. Mal, you got any tape?"

Malik sidled past him and went to the bathroom, returning shortly with white bandaging tape and scissors. As Malik wrapped Barsad's hands, Barsad sardonically asked, "Now you'll step in if it gets out of hand, right?" Then he grinned at Malik's blank look.

Once wrapped, Barsad went to his pack to retrieve his cold weather gloves. All the while Bane stood in the middle of the living room, waiting.

When he came to stand in front of Bane, Barsad asked, "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes. Best to test it now instead of finding out it's lacking in the field. Don't you agree?"

"Sure, but I'd rather it was some Indian soldier punching you than me."

Revealing his own capacity for wit, Bane twitched a questioning eyebrow at Malik who instantly raised his hands and backed away from the two. "I bust these hands on you, who is going to repair your mask if need be?"

"So that leaves you, Barsad." Bane squared his shoulders, feet planted solidly. "And don't hold back. Show me what you've got."

Barsad was not a big man—he stood only five feet ten—but he was built solidly, lean and muscular. Even during their two weeks of leisure here, he ran daily and worked out. Now he faced Bane, suddenly serious, the paleness of his blue eyes deepening with concentration as he brought his guard up.

A lightning fast right jab took Bane by surprise, struck the mask straight on, knocking him a half step backward before he caught himself. The blow stung Bane slightly and summoned a hint of moisture to his eyes. Instinctively his hands balled into fists, and he started to raise his guard, a scowl wrinkling his brow beneath the headpiece. Barsad hesitated until Bane caught himself and lowered his hands back to his sides.

"Again," Bane's amplified voice echoed in the room.

Barsad frowned, gathering himself. Two more jabs, right then left. Bane absorbed them, did not move or flinch, forced his mind to override the discomfort as well as his instinct to strike back.

"Harder. From the side," Bane said methodically.

A left hook, powerful enough to snap Bane's head to the right, followed by an upper cut, the gloves making a dull sound against the mask. Stinging, nothing more. Bane detected no shifting in the mask's fit.

Barsad hesitated hopefully. "Enough?"

Bane grunted. "Yes, I think that is sufficient."

Barsad stepped back to allow Malik to check the mask.

The Indian smiled with broad satisfaction. "Excellent. It hasn't moved at all. It would seem that it will take a superhero to disturb it."

"A superhero?" Bane said.

"Yeah," Barsad said, removing his gloves. "You know, like in comic books. Superman and all that."

"There was a definite lack of comic books in prison," Bane said wryly. "While you were wasting time reading such things during your American childhood, I was reading Dickens and Shakespeare."

Barsad gave him a cocked smile as he unwound the tape from his left hand. "Is that so? Well, no wonder you're so full of laughs."

Malik could not contain his bark of laughter before realizing how dangerously close he was to Bane should the joke not be taken in the spirited intended. But Bane allowed himself to absorb Barsad's jab, knowing that he was, in truth, too often overly serious. Talia and Temujin had both teased him similarly and with regularity, and he had certainly not held it against them. In fact, he appreciated the outside sources of balance. Even in prison he had benefitted from it at the hands of two inmates whom he called friends. The only two. Hans and Abrams. He often wondered what had become of them after they had escaped with him. Now without someone like them or Temujin, Bane realized that perhaps in Barsad he had stumbled upon someone with their value. After all, any man who would unflinchingly punch him in the face had some serious stones.


	6. Chapter 6

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Six**

In frustration, Bane tore every single item out of his pack. When he did not find what he was looking for there, he proceeded to rip the bedding from his cot, growling in frustration. The other men who shared the large tent with him cast curious glances his way, but no one dared ask him what he was so feverishly about. Nor did they venture away from their card games or the warm stove in the center of the tent.

A blast of cold evening air charged into the shelter when the door opened to admit Barsad. Bane only glanced at him, saw in that minuscule moment the fatigue in the American's eyes, the frost of exhalation on his mustache and beard which had grown thicker since coming to the mountains of Kashmir. Barsad trudged over to his cot next to Bane's and freed himself of his pack and rifle then sat heavily upon his bed, still breathing hard, waiting to catch his breath before he spoke.

"What's wrong, Bane?"

"It's missing. I can't find it anywhere. I had it this morning."

"What?"

"Talia's picture."

"Did you check under your cot? Maybe you dropped it."

"I've looked everywhere in here. It's gone."

Barsad, too tired to offer any assistance, continued to watch the frantic search, his hands hanging loose over his knees. "Check your pockets."

"I have," Bane said irascibly. "Of course I have."

Barsad held up his hands in a defensive apology then removed his boots and lay back on his cot with a heavy sigh. "It'll turn up."

Bane halted his search, sat staring at the spilled contents of his pack on the cot. "Someone took it."

Barsad stifled a small laugh. "No one would be stupid enough to do that."

"Well, it didn't just grow legs and walk away," Bane snapped. Then he caught himself, knew he had no right to take this out on Barsad. So he sat quietly for a moment then rechecked every interior inch of the pack before resignedly returning the contents. Once finished, he looked at Barsad who now lay with his eyes shut, but the American was not asleep. "You're late getting back."

"That bastard wanted to see if we would freeze to death."

Bane knew he was referring to Havildar Nutkani…or Nutcase, as Barsad called him. A particularly surly Pakistani who took great delight in tormenting the men under him.

"He knows his wife is back home fucking his neighbor," Barsad had joked early on. "So he takes it out on us, the greasy cunt."

Bane had been hesitant to join the Northern Light Infantry, a formidable paramilitary force that operated in conjunction with the Pakistani regular army. He would have preferred joining the Kashmiri and Afghani mercenaries that operated on the fringes of Operation Badr. The NLI was too much like regular army for Bane's comfort. But Barsad had been persuaded by a friend of his, a friend who was now their company commander. Since then, they had been humping up and down the hills and mountains bordering the Indian national highway, keeping an eye out for the return of Indian forces to the outposts on their side of the Line of Control now that the worst of winter was over. Rumor had it the militants and the NLI would soon push beyond the LOC and occupy Indian territory.

Bane stared at his pack, trying to think how he could have misplaced Talia's picture. Had he perhaps tucked it in a pocket when he had left their tent that morning and then somehow it had slipped out? No, he would not have taken it from his pack; he kept it there always, carefully preserved in a small zipped pocket when he was not looking at it.

"Are you ever going to tell me who she is?" Barsad's groggy voice cut through Bane's aggravation.

Bane continued to glower at the pack, Talia's face in his mind's eye. "Her identity is no concern of yours."

Barsad grunted, unruffled by Bane's continued evasion. "Didn't say it was. Just curious is all. Something to talk about. She obviously means a lot to you."

"She does." Bane got to his feet, shrugging into his coat.

"Maybe it's really Melisande," Barsad said, crooking one arm between his head and pillow. "Maybe she's not dead after all, but you and Maysam need Saddig to believe it."

Bane halted at the foot of Barsad's cot, scowled at him. "If that's really what you believe, then you are mistaken." With that, he stalked from the warm tent.

A sharp wind whistled over the camp, and Bane turned up the collar of his coat, shrugged himself deeper into its protection. The battalion's walled tents stretched away from him on either side, many of them already dark, others alight with fire and lanterns from within. Low voices murmured, the words undiscernible between the rush of the wind and the muffling effect Bane's mask had upon his hearing. The camp was located at the base of a small mountain, but even the lower altitude could not save them from the bite of late winter. He dug a black knit cap from his pocket and pulled it on, covering the exposed skin of his shaved head. His boots crunched against the uneven, loose dirt beneath him; all of the wiry vegetation had been trampled weeks ago when troops had first moved into this area.

Bane tramped toward the sentry line at the edge of camp. There he halted in the lee of one of the tents and hunkered down to stare off into the moonless night.

_Damn you, Barsad_.

Bane had been distraught enough by the disappearance of Talia's photo; the last thing he had needed on top of that was to be reminded of Melisande's death. He grumbled behind his mask, his breath puffing through the mouthpiece in gray clouds. Lifting his eyes to the first wink of stars in the crisp black sky, he remembered a night long, long ago in prison. He had secreted Melisande from her cell out to the shaft with him so she could look up and see the distant constellations. They had sat there together, alone and close, huddled beneath his blanket to combat the damp chill of the endless stone surrounding them. Even after all this time, he swore he could still smell her scent, believed he could feel her light kiss against his cheek from when she had thanked him for bringing her into the shaft, allowing her a brief taste of the freedom the male inmates enjoyed at will while she remained safe from their reach in her cell. That had been the first time Melisande had asked Bane if he would take care of her child once Talia was born, in the event of something happening to her. Terrified over such a daunting prospect, Bane had cut short their time in the shaft and avoided Melisande for the better part of the following day.

But, of course, he could not stay angry with her and apologized for his behavior, offering to take her into the shaft again that night. A foolish risk to tempt fate two nights in a row, for on that second night, another prisoner had discovered them and attacked Melisande. Only by their combined efforts did they escape with nothing more than scrapes and bruises. But that had been the last time Melisande had dared leave her cell.

Did Barsad actually believe that the picture carried in Bane's pack was Melisande and that was why it was never shown to him? Or had the American only been fishing for answers? There had been times since leaving Rajasthan—quiet moments of companionship—when Bane had considered sharing Talia's picture with Barsad, but his age-old paranoid protectiveness always reared its horned head. Of course he could lie about the origin of the girl in the picture, but Bane had quickly learned Barsad was highly intuitive, especially for a man, and one look at Talia's picture would surely betray her lineage, for she reflected traits of her grandmother and mother, and Bane knew Barsad had seen many pictures of Melisande. He could not take the chance that Barsad might reveal Talia's existence to Saddig, purposefully or otherwise.

Bane closed his eyes, breathed in the clear mountain air, thought of the monastery high in the Himalayas to the east in Bhutan, his former home. A place of wonderful solitude. He had had friends there, good men with whom he had served. He thought of Akar, a young Bhutanese servant, whom he had befriended when he had first arrived at the monastery from prison. Like Bane, Akar lived with both emotional and physical scars suffered in defense of a loved one. The boy's facial deformities, caused by a wolf attack, made it easy for him to empathize with Bane's plight. Before leaving the monastery for the last time, Bane had tasked Akar with watching over Talia when she visited the monastery on school breaks, something the young man would not mind in the least, for he had fallen in love with Talia from the moment he had met her. Talia loved Akar, too, but unfortunately not in the way Akar desired.

Thinking of their many nights together, sitting in front of a roaring fire in the common room, reading aloud to one another or playing chess, backgammon, or cribbage, Bane frowned at the tug of homesickness and isolation. He knew he would never again belong anywhere. He had nothing and no one. The League had been his family. Even though Rā's al Ghūl had excommunicated him and thus stripped him of everything dear in life, Bane could not hate him, for he had admired most everything about the man who had saved him not only from prison but from death itself. He had looked upon Rā's as a father figure, especially after his birth father had rejected him.

Rā's had been there that day in Riyadh when Bane had met Edmund Dorrance. Though his father had certainly not been hostile—until that day he had been ignorant of Bane's existence—the meeting had been uncomfortable and awkward. Dorrance had been deceived by his own father who had staged the death of Bane's mother to end his son's relationship with a woman deemed unworthy and an obstacle to Edmund Dorrance's diplomatic future. Believing the love of his life gone forever, Bane's father had married the woman whom Thomas Dorrance had chosen for him, the daughter of a wealthy sheikh. And he had still been married to her, their children grown, when Bane had met him. Understandably Bane's father did not wish to cause his family any injury or scandal by revealing his disfigured, ex-prison-inmate offspring. Understandable, yes, but no less hurtful to Bane who hid his feelings on the matter from everyone but Talia. He smiled when he remembered her coming to his room the night after his return from Saudi Arabia, only ten years old then but so perceptive for a child. She had snuggled in bed with him, cozy beneath her mother's blanket, and begged him to tell her about his father.

Opening his eyes now to the Pakistani night, Bane listened to the tread of a nearby sentry, saw the shadow of the man as he drifted past. Standing to ease his back's stiffness, Bane leaned against the corner support of the tent behind him, wrapping his arms about him for warmth, remembered Melisande's blanket. She had brought it into the pit prison with her, a gift from Rā's al Ghūl—or Henry Ducard, as he was known then—from his many travels. Though stolen and recovered twice, the blanket had endured with Melisande and then with Bane and Talia after her death, eventually carried out of the prison by Bane. He had managed to retain it throughout his years with the League, though he sensed a subtle, possessive resentment from Rā's. And in the end, Rā's demanded that the blanket remain behind when Bane left the monastery. For Talia's sake, Bane had relented, for the blanket was all she had left of her mother.

Bane's stare grew as cold and hard as the late February night. What had become of Talia's picture? Someone must have taken it, but why? He had no enemies among the company. In fact, the men respected, if not feared, him. Since joining their ranks he had fought men from other companies, those foolish enough to take him on in one of the many boxing matches that sprang up from time to time out of boredom and pent-up energy. He had quickly become the battalion's champion. And as Bane's friend, Barsad had also reaped the benefits such a reputation had earned, although Barsad in his own right was revered for his marksmanship; some of the men called him Deadshot.

As the chill tried to work its way to his bones, Bane finally left his spot and trudged back down the company street toward his tent, still bemoaning the loss of the photograph. The thought of some other man possessing it curdled his blood and drew a low growl from him, his fingers twitching. He knew the filth that would trip through the thief's mind at the sight of such unblemished beauty. Yet, as abhorrent as that thought was, what Bane feared even more was forgetting what Talia looked like if deprived of her image for an undeterminable length of time. All too well, he recalled how time had tried to erase his mother's image from his memories following her death, for he had lacked even a photograph of her to fend off the nightmarish images of daily life in the pit prison. And though his rational side assured him that he could never forget Talia's face, his emotional side fretted just the same. What was it Barsad had said back in Rajasthan? Everyone had a weakness. Bane had never considered such a flaw when it came to himself. Yet now he knew it was indeed true.

Talia was his weakness.


	7. Chapter 7

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Seven**

The realization came to Bane overnight. When he awoke, he knew his subconscious had been turning the question of the missing photograph over and over while he slept, a familiar process whenever something troubled him, and now the answer lay before him, as clear as the cerulean morning sky. But as he and Barsad headed to the mess tent, he kept the revelation to himself.

Bane did not relish removing his mask in front of others, for he did not like to put such vulnerabilities on display, yet he always ate with the men of his unit; he would not hide. If they could not stomach the sight of his mutilated face, that was their misfortune, as far as he was concerned. Such aversions on the part of others were mere weaknesses to him, and he had noted early on to whom such delicate stomachs belonged; he shared little fellowship with them, these men whom he knew would not have his back, nor anyone else's, when the bullets began to fly.

The mess tent was welcoming, filled with the heat of so many bodies as well as the warmth emanating from the stainless steel steam tables from which the cook staff ladled out what passed for breakfast. Barsad went to get in the chow line, but Bane peeled away, his eyes zeroing in on a table down to his right. Though Barsad did not inquire of his deviation from the norm, Bane knew his companion watched to see where he was going.

When Bane reached the table, he stood behind the men sitting on the bench in front of him, their backs to him. Across the table Havildar Nutkani was so busy shoveling in his breakfast that he did not immediately notice Bane. The others nearby—none of whom were conversing with Nutkani—instantly lifted their focus to Bane. His dark expression affected them instantly, and one man who had nearly been done eating smoothly picked up his tray and slipped away, opening a space for Bane. As Bane settled on the bench, the wood protested his weight, his movement at last catching Nutkani's attention. A scowl instantly covered the Pakistani's sharp, narrow features.

"Since when do you eat away from your American friend?" Nutkani asked, his precisely trimmed mustache slanting with sarcasm.

"Does it look like I'm eating?" Bane growled, lifting his hands slightly from where they rested on the table.

Sudden concern twitched Nutkani's cheek, and he glanced in search of Barsad, as if hoping the American would call Bane away. Meanwhile the men on either side of Bane hurried to finish, no doubt sensing the emergent danger.

"You took something of mine," Bane measured out the words, never blinking.

"Took something? What are you talking about?"

"You know."

Nutkani noticed the curious attention of the others at the table as well as those elsewhere in the tent. He seemed to draw sudden confidence in the knowledge that he was surrounded by so many witnesses. A slyness replaced his unease, and a smile slipped across his greasy mouth. Setting aside his fork, he dipped one hand inside his breast pocket.

"You must mean this." Nutkani held up Talia's snapshot between his thumb and forefinger, the smile taking on a cunning gleam.

With the blurred speed of a striking cobra, Bane snatched the photo from Nutkani with his left hand while his right slammed the noncom's face into his breakfast. Several exclamations went up, and those closest to Bane leapt to their feet, startled. As Nutkani swore and lifted his head, blood from his nose mingled with his eggs. Bane stood, wiped Talia's picture carefully against his jacket to remove any of Nutkani's filth before he slipped it into his breast pocket. Barsad was rushing toward him as all around the brief quiet of shock quickly filled with murmurings and even some laughter. Fingers pointed, more heads turned.

Nutkani pawed his breakfast from his eyes, reached for his napkin to staunch the flow of blood as he sputtered, "I'll have you brought up on charges for this, Bane."

"You do that," Bane rumbled, "and we'll see how the Captain feels about a noncom coming into my tent and into my personal effects."

"It wasn't me who took your damn picture. I just ended up with it."

Bane's left eyebrow twitched. "Of course you would have someone else take the risk, wouldn't you?"

He turned away from Nutkani and started toward the chow line, all eyes still upon him, some of the men grinning, others looking amazed but not unhappy. Barsad, however, was the exception.

"What the hell did you do that for?" Barsad demanded, his gaze darting to Nutkani who was now shouting after Bane, berating him in Urdu.

Bane patted his pocket. "Bastard had Talia's picture."

"How the fuck did you know that?"

Bane grunted. "Who else in the company would be that stupid?" He continued past Barsad without breaking stride.

"Hmm," he heard Barsad utter with sudden thoughtfulness. "Never thought of it that way." He followed Bane back to the chow line. "But you're still in for a shitstorm."

Nutkani's Urdu threats continued as he left his unfinished meal and stormed from the tent, no doubt heading for the commanding officer's tent.

One of the men serving the food grinned at Bane. "Pulling the tiger's tail a bit early in the day, aren't you, Bane?"

Bane only glanced at him, held out his plate for the slop that was dropped upon it, moved down the line. But he heard the talk all around him. Bored men who took great pleasure in the pain and humiliation of a noncom few if any liked.

In a low voice from next to him, Barsad said, "Nutcase won't let this go, you know."

"He will."

"I don't think so, especially since this was in front of the whole company. You've shamed him."

"Don't worry about it."

Barsad gave a quiet snort. "Remember I'm the one who vouched for you when we joined this outfit."

"I remember."

The coldness of these two words successfully silenced Barsad, and they went to their customary table where they were met with grins and jokes about what Bane had done to Nutkani. Bane, however, did not take part in the mirth, especially since he had to remove his mask just then to eat. As usual, the others at the table discreetly averted their eyes, turning the conversation away from him so he would not feel any sort of obligation to speak.

By the time Barsad and Bane left the mess tent, they were met just outside the door by Naik Khawaja.

"The CO wants to see you, Bane. Right away."

"Whud I tell you?" Barsad said with a sigh of resignation. "I'll go with you."

"No," Bane said, his hard tone leaving no room for debate, and he left Barsad in his wake, followed Khawaja down the company street.

He found his company commander, Captain Haydar Ahmedani, in the CO's spacious tent, the colonel himself seated behind a desk, looking particularly displeased, as if he had not yet had his morning coffee. Standing in front of the desk but to one side was Nutkani, his perfectly groomed mustache now devoid of eggs, all blood wiped away, his murky-brown eyes shimmering in anticipation of Bane's upbraiding.

Bane kept his gaze forward, did not in the least acknowledge Nutkani's presence as he came loosely, almost recalcitrantly to attention.

The CO glanced between the noncom and Bane, scowling. "Havildar Nutkani has accused you of assault, Bane. A serious offense, of course, as you must surely know."

"Serious indeed," Bane said without emotion. "And such a serious accusation would require proof, witnesses…sir."

Nutkani coughed a sardonic laugh. "Witnesses? The whole company saw what you did."

"I did nothing, sir," Bane said to the colonel. "The Havildar's accusations are false and based in prejudice."

The colonel considered Bane with only mild skepticism; he was not fond of Nutkani either. Bane knew it was a calculated gamble on his part to deny what so many had so clearly observed, but he was banking not only on the company's collective hatred of Nutkani but on their fearful reluctance to incur the wrath of the Masked Man.

"False?" Nutkani sneered. "Are you mad? You attacked me in front of everyone, unprovoked."

"Until I get to the bottom of this, Bane," the colonel said as if Nutkani had not spoken, "you are relieved of your duties."

"Very well, sir."

"You are dismissed."

Ahmedani followed Bane from the tent, stepped close to his side once outside to say, "I stuck my neck out for you and Barsad to get you into this outfit, Bane. I don't appreciate this. What the hell were you thinking?"

Careful not to incriminate himself, Bane replied, "Did you know Nutkani was in possession of a personal item of mine?"

"Did you see him with this…item?"

"Yes. I…retrieved it from him."

Ahmedani grunted dubiously. "_Retrieved_ indeed." A smile almost conquered the officer's serious expression, but he was able to stifle it at the last moment. "Well, whatever truly happened you will have to answer for it if you are proven guilty."

They reached Bane's tent where they paused outside.

"I'm not so sure the NLI is the place for you," the captain said. "Though Barsad did not tell me much about your past, I think it's safe to assume you are more accustomed to leading than being led. Am I correct?"

"Yes, sir."

Ahmedani nodded gravely. "Well, I have no doubts you are an effective soldier, so let's wait and see what happens with our friend Nutkani. Perhaps things will sort themselves out without too much trouble." He offered a tight, troubled smile before leaving Bane.

Entering the tent, Bane was greeted with congratulatory whistles, catcalls, and laughter from the men who had already returned from the mess tent. But he ignored their amusement over Nutkani's misfortunes and sat upon his cot, reaching for his pack. He slipped Talia's photo from his pocket, gazed upon it for a long moment, a smile spreading beneath the mask, a smile that did not last long when he thought of Ahmedani's words.

How true it was that he chafed under the command of other men, especially someone as deficient as Nutkani. In the League of Shadows, he had risen quickly through the ranks, not only because of his physical strength and ability but because of his sharp mind and leadership skills, his fearlessness. By the time he had been excommunicated, only Rā's al Ghūl himself and Damien Chase had outranked him.

At the thought of Chase, Bane scowled and slipped Talia's picture safely into his pack. Chase—an American—had commanded Bane's final op, and it was Chase whom Bane blamed for Temujin's death. Chase had always been suspicious of Temujin, for Jin had been in the League before his time spent in the pit prison but had been allowed to leave in order to avenge the rape and murder of his wife. Any man's acceptance into the League was a commitment unto death, for the secrets entrusted to members could not safely be allowed beyond the brotherhood; yet Temujin had been an exception, the result of his close relationship with Rā's, an intimacy born from the shared bereavement of their beloved wives' similar tragic deaths. In fact, as far as Bane knew, Jin was the only man alive in whom Rā's had confided his grief; Talia claimed that her father kept such sorrow even from her.

"It's hardened him," she had said not long ago. "I saw it when I first met him, but I thought…I hoped I could change that. I thought finding out he had a daughter would heal at least some of his pain." She frowned. "But I don't think I've done him any good at all."

Bane had taken her hand in his to soothe her. "Of course you have, _habibati_. You must never think otherwise. Ask Jin. You _have_ made a difference in your father. He's told me as much."

But she had not been convinced, and her disappointment in herself as well as the guilt she had always felt over Bane's injuries suffered in her defense often saddened her beyond consolation. He hated to see her that way and would always do everything in his power to brighten her and make her laugh, but even his efforts often failed on such gloomy occasions.

Sighing, he put his pack away. How he missed her! Sometimes the pain consumed him so thoroughly that he thought he would die from it.

Knowing he needed to conquer such despair, he fled his comrades' banter and headed back outside in search of a quiet spot to meditate and forget about fools like Nutkani. And to somehow combat his deep longings for the young woman whom he loved.


	8. Chapter 8

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Eight**

Bane slipped soundlessly from his tent, utilizing skills acquired in the blackness of the pit prison and from his training with the League to completely blend with the moonless night. The wild wind tearing south from the Himalayas could not shred the blanket of thick, charcoal clouds that concealed the stars. He knew the bite of such wind from his old mountain home. Though the monastery had been built into the leeward side of the range, its occupants were not always spared from the writhing slashes of frigid air. Remembering those nights always manifested the pleasant sensation of sitting in front of the fireplace either in his bedroom or the common room, Talia in his lap when she was younger, their warmth mingling and sustaining them. Even as a teenager, she had sometimes sat close, her arms around him or his around her, but not very often in her father's presence, for Rā's had made it plain with wry looks and comments to Talia that he did not think such contact between a grown man and his young daughter was appropriate, no matter what their prison life had allowed or required.

Bane moved along the company street with silent purpose. Upon reaching his destination, he crouched, blurred seamlessly against the side of a tent, listening to the snores of those inside. Waiting…waiting with the eternal patience of the ninja…

He would not have to abide for long—Havildar Nutkani had a troublesome prostate, one that compelled him to urinate frequently, a weakness Bane had noted during their very first patrol. He knew much about the human body and its various frailties, had learned medicine from an early age, accompanying the prison doctor on his daily rounds and assisting him with procedures and treatments. With pride, Bane remembered helping Doctor Assad deliver Talia. A terrifying and fascinating experience all at once.

Bane's fingers twitched. The thought of Talia made him unconsciously bring one hand up to the breast pocket of his coat. He pressed lightly against the small photo within. Never again would he leave it in his pack; no, he would keep it on his person, close to his heart. When he recalled Nutkani holding the picture, a scowl wrinkled his brow beneath his knit cap, and he had to suppress a deep growl of hatred.

He knew Nutkani had taken Talia's photo as a means to try and reestablish his authority in the eyes of the company. Bane had risen in popularity much too rapidly for the insecure little man's taste. On their last patrol Bane had questioned one of the noncom's orders in front of the squad. Red-faced and spitting, Nutkani had reprimanded Bane. Bane had said nothing, simply staring at him with an icy regard.

"You think just because Barsad is friends with the Captain I cannot touch you," Nutkani had sneered. "Well, you masked freak, we shall see, won't we?"

Who had actually taken the photo from his pack, though? Bane believed that much of Nutkani's story—he had not been the one to actually swipe the item; after all, the havildar had been on patrol with Barsad most of the day when Bane had noticed the absence of the picture. The culprit was not from his own squad; of that Bane was certain. It would be someone over whom Nutkani wielded power, for Bane was equally sure that no man who knew him in the least would willfully put himself in such a dangerous position.

As expected, none of the men interviewed during today's investigation of the alleged assault on Nutkani had admitted seeing the attack, not even those seated at the same table. That meant Nutkani's accomplice, if in the mess tent that morning, had also denied witnessing it. And if that was true, it bolstered Bane's suspicion that the accomplice was a reluctant participant in the theft. Yet this did not lessen Bane's loathing of the man, whomever he was, for it did not erase the fact that the soldier was weak enough to be manipulated by someone as feebleminded as Nutkani. Bane did, however, allow a certain amount of personal pride from the united front portrayed by the others in his unit. Perhaps he had been a bit too harsh in his judgment of the NLI after all.

A cough from inside the tent sharpened Bane's awareness to a razor edge. He breathed evenly but not deeply, for he did not want the mask's mechanical wheeze to give him away. Waited, listened, straining to hear through the muffling design of the mask. Through the soles of his feet, he sensed a tremor. Movement from within the tent. Bane's unblinking gaze fixed upon the door, fingers restless again.

An unexpected flash of memory distracted him, took him back to the pit, another black night when he had lain in wait to kill a man. Crazy Saul. A harmless old man who was guilty of nothing more than the dangerous misfortune of knowing Talia's name, her true name, not the false name of Henri given at birth to hide her gender. Crazy Saul had learned it through a slip of Bane's tongue, a moment when Bane had been unaware of the man's presence one night outside his cell. Bane had been sitting on the floor, trying to comfort Melisande through the bars separating them. She had been crying over worries about Talia and her plight…

The door to Nutkani's tent swung open, further hiding Bane from the view of the man exiting. Bane did not breathe, did not stir, did not blink. As the door slapped to a close behind him, the shadowy figure mumbled something, paused to take in a strong gulp of fresh air, clearing his lungs of the fug from inside the tent. Then he turned away from Bane. For a moment Bane thought perhaps Nutkani was actually going to put forth the effort to go to the latrines. But after a few shuffling steps, the noncom halted near the far corner of the tent and unzipped his pants. As he sighed in relief over the patter of his odious, steaming stream, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

Bane moved without a sound. Just a few long, smooth strides put him behind Nutkani without the man's briefest awareness. His left hand covered the Pakistani's mouth while his right arm snaked around Nutkani's neck, all in one fluid motion. A single powerful twist. A snap. No time even for a whimper from the havildar. Just like Crazy Saul. Bane eased the twitching body downward, the mouth still covered. He paused a moment longer, ears attuned to the night for any movement inside the tent or out. Nothing, nothing but the wind. Then, with the warmth of satisfaction spreading throughout his limbs, Bane freed his victim and crept unseen back to his tent.

#

No evidence, no witnesses, and only a whiff of alleged motivation. Certainly nothing with which Bane could be charged. And the death of Nutkani garnered no sense of loss or mourning from those in the ranks. In fact, the company's mood, after hearing the news that morning, if anything improved. Bane carried on as if nothing had happened, for indeed to him nothing had, nothing but the necessary eradication of a disease, given no more thought than curing a case of typhoid fever in prison. Being under suspicion, however, earned him further relief from duty and confinement to his tent. And it was there that he lay reading on his cot when half the company filed out to go on patrol after the midday meal.

As the men passed by, their quiet discussions that had first started beyond his hearing did not continue, and he felt their curious, respectful gazes touching upon the book that he held between them. Fear emanated from many of them; he could feel it, smell it. So far Operation Badr had been a bloodless affair for them, and none of them had expected the first casualty to be one of their own, especially in this manner.

A short while later Barsad entered the tent. Only a handful of men were still there, sitting far down the aisle. Barsad tossed them a dark glance to warn them off before approaching Bane. This was their first private moment since Nutkani's body had been discovered.

Barsad sat on the edge of his cot, expression deeply troubled, his body slightly hunched so he was closer to Bane. Speaking slightly above a whisper, Barsad began, "Jesus Christ, Bane. You can't just go around snapping the neck of every bastard who flicks a finger at you. You're in deep shit."

"Am I?" Bane indifferently turned a page. "Seems to me all I've done is gained some extra leisure time."

"God damn it, Bane." Barsad shifted even closer to the edge of his cot. "You can't be so fucking reckless. You couldn't just wait and frag him in the field?"

"When the bullets start to fly, men like Nutkani are nowhere to be found. He wasn't just a fool; he was a dangerous fool. Eliminating him," he cocked an eyebrow at Barsad, "—whomever it was who did it—saves lives, good lives, the lives of brave men, men who deserve to live." He looked away from _War and Peace_ to pin a laser stare on Barsad. "Men like you."

Barsad tried to hide his understanding in a brief, cynical laugh. "And what have I done to deserve to live? What would you know about that? We know very little about each other, even after these several weeks. I don't even know who this girl is you'd kill someone over just because he took her picture from you." He sat back slightly and gestured sarcastically. "Thanks for the warning, by the way; God knows _I_ won't be touching that picture."

Bane hesitated, considered whether or not to expound, then began, "The last mission I was on, before I sought out Maysam, I was subordinate to another man. I was third in command in the organization to which I belonged; he was second. A capable man, true enough, but we never got on well; he was jealous of me, of how rapidly I had progressed through the ranks. No doubt he feared I would one day displace him." Bane shrugged one shoulder. "And I would have. So he would find ways to antagonize me. On that last op, he had gotten a hold of a picture of Talia and burnt it in front of me."

"So did you kill him for it?"

Bane ignored the acerbity. "I allowed it because he was my superior officer. True, he also had a pistol pointed at me, but—believe me—that would not have stopped me if I had decided upon retribution. But my inaction was a mistake, a terrible, miscalculated mistake."

"Why?"

"I have no doubt that my inaction that day led to the death of a friend of mine, a member of our team, a close friend, a man who had been in prison with me. He was the reason why I ultimately escaped, and it was he who trained me afterward. A good man, a valuable asset. Too valuable to be thrown away in such a manner."

"What happened?"

"Our commander—the one who burnt the picture—sacrificed him, allowed him to be killed in order to maintain his cover." Bane shook his head, stared hard at his book, saw Temujin's body lying there in that Shanghai street. "But it wasn't necessary; not in my eyes. If I had been there, I wouldn't have allowed it. But I had been following orders, stationed at a different location, even though instinct told me to be near my friend that day. I told myself that I could trust the chain of command, that my superior officer would protect not only our target but our man inside as well."

"But you said your friend died so his cover wasn't blown."

Bane growled, "It was a lie. He was set up. Our commander had always despised him; they had a history before I ever came into the picture. I should have known when he destroyed Talia's picture that it would embolden him, seeing how I did not challenge him then as I should have. No doubt he felt I would react the same way when he told me my friend's death was a necessity for the success of the mission."

"Something tells me you didn't."

"Of course not. I make few mistakes, and never the same one twice."

"So you killed him."

"Yes. And by doing so I was no longer welcome in the organization."

"Well, it would appear history repeats itself." Barsad sighed as if tired. "I knew coming into this that you have an edge to you, but I didn't think it was a suicidal one. Methods such as yours often have collateral damage. I've seen it before, firsthand."

Bane no longer saw the words upon the pages before him, for anger blurred his vision. "If you are concerned about your safety, perhaps you should distance yourself from me. I'm sure Ahmedani would accommodate you."

"It's Ahmedani I'm concerned about. He took a gamble on you…because of me. So whatever you do is on him and me. That's how I see it. He did us both a favor, and neither he nor I take kindly to your method of repayment."

Slowly Bane closed the book and set it beside him, taking the time to dismiss the flare of irritation he had allowed a moment before and to force away the emotions stirred by discussing Temujin's death. "You are right, of course."

"I…" Barsad choked on his words. "What?"

"Yes. I am indebted to both you and Ahmedani. But don't you think I considered that before taking action?"

"To tell you the truth, Bane, I'm not sure you always _think_ before you act."

"Then you have much to learn about me, brother."

Abruptly Barsad's expression changed, as if Bane's words had been a physical blow. All color fled his ruddy complexion, and he looked suddenly cold, as if they were standing outside. His pale blue eyes lost the fire of a brief moment ago and reflected something dark and sorrowful. A memory. Bane knew that look, that vacuous distance seen in his own mirror so many times, like a punch to the gut.

Quickly Barsad turned away as he muttered, "Well, I guess that makes two of us." He snatched up his rifle and cleaning kit. Then, without another word, he left the tent.

#

The summons to Captain Ahmedani's tent came late in the day. When Bane arrived, he found Barsad already inside. Both he and Ahmedani looked disgruntled. The officer did not invite either of his men sit down in the cramped space. The captain remained on his feet as well, standing before them with hands behind his back and a gray pall hovering about him.

"It has come down to this, gentlemen," Ahmedani began in a clipped voice. "The Colonel has made it plain that accepting Bane into our ranks was a grave mistake. Guilty or not—and there's no way to truly prove guilt—Bane cannot remain with us." He shot a glance at Barsad before the American could speak, "And you should consider yourself fortunate, Bane, that discharge is the only result. If not for Barsad, I would have foregone any involvement in the Colonel's decision, and no doubt you would have fared much worse. So for that you owe Barsad your thanks as much or more than me."

Bane had expected this result, if not something worse, so he remained impassive, merely nodding once. "I appreciate your efforts, sir, and your honesty."

"If you would like," Ahmedani continued, "I can contact our militant Kashmiri brothers and see if they are interested in your services."

"I can do that," Barsad spoke up, surprising Bane. "Actually, sir, if you can arrange it with Battalion, I'd like to request to be discharged as well."

Ahmedani's dark eyebrows knit. "Why? There's no need for you to leave—"

"I know, sir, but…" He glanced at Bane, and in that brief look Bane saw the faint remains of that haunted memory he had glimpsed earlier in their tent. "Well, I promised a friend that I would…um…keep an eye on Bane. I won't say 'keep him out of trouble,' because obviously I've already failed at that."

Bane scowled at him. "I don't require a bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?" A sardonic grin slipped out. "Not likely you need that, no. That's not what I mean."

"Are you quite sure, Barsad?" Ahmedani asked. "I'd prefer to keep you, but if you feel obligated—"

"He isn't obligated," Bane growled. "He can stay." But even as he said it, Bane realized his words were merely prideful, and that realization surprised him, causing him to say the last sentence dispassionately.

"Barsad?" Ahmedani pressed hopefully, allowed him one more chance to reconsider.

Bane did not look at his comrade now, for he did not want the American to possibly read his true feelings. He considered these emotions to be a weakness and feared Barsad would exploit them. He scoffed at himself; surely he was mistaken about what he felt. After all, as Barsad had pointed out, they knew very little about one another, certainly not enough to have formed any significant, valuable bond. No, he told himself, whatever he felt for Barsad was simply gratitude for the man's help in securing him contacts and a job. That and his appreciation of having such a skilled marksman by his side in what would soon be a war zone.

Though Bane continued to stare straight ahead, he could sense Barsad's small, somewhat smug smile when he responded to Ahmedani, "I will say one thing for my masked friend here—there're sure to be fireworks wherever he goes, and you know how I do enjoy a good display of fireworks, Captain."

"Yes," Ahmedani said, relaxing and allowing the smile that came with the memory. "I do recall that from our brief time in Paris." Then the pleasant reflection vanished, and hard authority jumped back into his expression. "Very well then. I'll see what I can do, Barsad, though I will hate to lose you."

"Thank you, sir."

Once they left the tent, Barsad kept pace with Bane's quickened steps, though Bane tried to stay ahead of him in a gesture of dismissiveness. The American, however, would not be deterred. Begrudgingly, Bane admired his tenacity.

He glanced sidelong at Barsad, tried to stifle a small smile when he grumbled, "Fireworks, you say?"

"Yeah. Love 'em. Ever since I was a little kid." He grinned, and his eyes danced. "The bigger, the better."


	9. Chapter 9

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Nine**

Bane blinked against the glare of the late spring sun and pressed the binoculars to his eyes. He focused the glasses and scanned the two-lane road some thirty-two hundred meters below his mountain vantage point. A variety of traffic crept along: old trucks and cars, carts pulled by horses or donkeys. A steady, trickling flow along the Indian national highway—or NH1 as it was often called—moving between Srinagar to the south and Kargil to the north, then eastward along the valleys to Leh. The region's lifeblood. Bane's fingers twitched against the binoculars. Blood indeed, for no doubt in the weeks to come that is exactly what would be spilled upon that highway and in the surrounding barren mountains.

What remained of Bane's nose beneath his mask twitched in irritation, and he lowered the binoculars long enough to scowl at Barsad stretched out on the ground beside him. The insouciant American lay on his back, his rifle beside him, soaking up the sun, dragging on a cigarette.

"Put that thing out," Bane growled.

Barsad took a long pull then laconically puffed the words, "Nag, nag, nag," before he crushed out the short remains of the cigarette against one of the many rocks nearby. With his eyes still closed, he grinned to soften his complaint. "C'mon, Bane. What's eating at you? You've hardly spoken since you got that letter yesterday."

Bane's stare hardened as he swept the binoculars to the left and studied the distant low buildings of Kargil. The valley town was not overly large, somewhere around eight thousand people, situated on a rise. The Suru River meandered past it, its waters nurturing the only green vistas in an otherwise drab, tawny landscape. He and some of his men had been in the town more than once, reconnoitering for the Pakistani army, the most recent visit just yesterday. They had posed as travelers, an easy enough cover for the Kashmiri militant tribesmen under Bane's command. To blend in with his comrades, Bane had kept his mask hidden behind a _shemagh_. The town itself was of little consequence, but nearby was an ammunition dump belonging to the Indian military. Bane's focus drifted there now as he tried to ignore Barsad's inquiry.

But his companion would not relent. "Bad news in the letter, I take it?"

"No," Bane grumbled.

"So it wasn't the letter then." The loose gravel crunched beneath Barsad as he sat up to ponder, shifting slightly downward so his shape was not outlined against the sky behind him. "Hmm." He cradled his rifle. "Something happened in Kargil then."

"Let it go, Barsad."

"Let it go? No fun in that. I'm bored. Sitting on top of this mountain for the past two weeks is making me itch. C'mon. Humor me for once. We've been together over four months now, and you've told me next to nothing about you. Such mystery tends to make a man a bit leery."

Bane continued to study the town. The truth of the matter was that the letter from Talia—forwarded to him through Maysam—had indeed disturbed him, but not because of any bad news; indeed, it had contained none. No, his unrest had manifested from his crushing desire to see Talia. His unsettled mood had then been compounded by his foray into Kargil where the villagers' Dard and Tibetan heritages imbued them with mongoloid features, which only served to painfully remind him of Temujin. Memories of the dynamic little Mongol had battered his thoughts and tangled with his torturous longings for Talia during the long climb back to the mountain outpost. He wondered if he would ever be able to forgive himself for Temujin's death.

Upon his return to their remote base, he had read Talia's letter again. She wrote about school and about her plans for the summer—she would be spending most of it in France with a friend's family. At Le Rosey, French was the language she spoke the most, so much so that by now whenever she spoke English, her words carried a slightly exotic, French-flavored accent. Bane smiled at the memory of her voice, like a beloved piece of music played upon Passat's violin back at the monastery. The letter spoke little of Talia's father, and he feared that the rift he had caused would forever alienate daughter from father. This regret—along with those about Temujin—and an overall loneliness over the loss of two such important figures in his life had led to his present melancholia.

Bane felt Barsad's weighty gaze upon him, refusing to give up. Behind the mask, he frowned, and some of the resistance fled, relaxing his stiff shoulders. Perhaps he should not be so obtuse around Barsad. After all, the American had been nothing but reliable and amiable since they had first met. He admitted that his past relationships with Americans attributed to his disassociate tendencies around Barsad, but he realized such practices were unfair. And, he wondered, perhaps he had thus far kept his distance for fear of eventually losing yet another significant friend.

Eventually the binoculars lowered, and Bane glanced over at Barsad. The American's blue eyes did not waver, staring out from a face already slightly tanned. His winter beard had been shaved off long ago, though he regularly sported several days' growth of stubble, as he did today. Faint remnants of his grin survived. Though Bane did not say as much, he always appreciated—and envied—Barsad's easy sense of humor. It was a welcomed balance to his own tendencies toward asceticism.

"If I tell you, you will think me soft."

Barsad laughed. "There are several things I could call you, Bane, but 'soft' ain't one of 'em."

Bane returned the binoculars to their case and shoved himself back from the crest to sit near Barsad. Momentarily his attention drifted slightly downward along the rear face of the treeless mountain to the small, squat buildings where he and his men were stationed. He turned up the collar on his jacket, for though the valleys were warm, up here the wind bore a cold sting.

"Do you miss your family, John?"

Bane rarely used Barsad's given name, and hearing it seemed to disturb Barsad, killing whatever mirth had lingered upon his face.

Though he almost regretted starting down this path, Bane continued nonetheless, "I mean how long has it been since you've seen your family?"

Barsad's grip tightened upon his rifle before he caught himself and loosened his hold, letting one hand slide down the barrel. "Hmm. Lemme think." He stared westward across the orange-tinted mountains, the tallest among them still capped with snow. "Something like twelve years, I believe." Absently he ground the butt of his rifle against the gravel. "Not much to miss, though, really. Just my Ma."

"Your father is dead?"

A sardonic grin twitched one corner of Barsad's mouth. "I wish."

"What do you mean?"

"He ain't much worth the air he breathes. Never was."

"Any siblings?"

Barsad's expression completely closed, and the rifle butt bit hard into the soil. A muscle twitched in his cheek. "One brother." His jaw clenched. "But he's dead." Abruptly he cleared his throat. "But now you've changed the subject, haven't you, Bane? You're good at that when it comes to yourself. We started this conversation about you; why don't we get back to that?"

The question was caustic, leaving no room for argument, so Bane respected his obvious discomfort in the subject of his West Virginia family.

"Did something happen in Kargil?"

Bane stared into the valley below the outpost, feeling its emptiness. Then slowly he opened up about the emotions that had been troubling him concerning both Temujin and Talia, though as usual he did not reveal any details about Talia's identity or the sexual aspect of their relationship.

"I thought I would adjust to this life better by now. After all, I'm accustomed to being in the field."

"Sure, you are. But the difference is you have only this. You're used to going back to your home in between operations."

"You said you haven't been home in twelve years. You never think about it? About going back, I mean. Even for a while?"

"No." That now-familiar shadow darkened his eyes. "But it sounds like your home is a lot more…appealing than mine. Does Talia live there?"

"No." Bane hesitated. "But her father does, so she occasionally visits still."

"Then I reckon that eliminates one of my guesses."

"Guesses?"

"Yeah, that she's your daughter. I mean, she sounded young on the phone."

Bane momentarily turned his face away to hide the flush of color that sprang into his cheeks. When he and Talia had made love, their age difference had been immaterial; what had passed between them that night had seemed a natural progression in their complicated, intimate relationship. Yet he was aware of how certain societies would frown upon the union of a couple with fifteen years between them, especially when the female was considered a minor in such societies. And of course there had been the reaction of Talia's father, as she had described it in detail on more than one occasion, taking pleasure in rankling her parent, using it as a form of punishment for Rā's' excommunication of Bane. Bane often wondered how Rā's would react were their paths ever to cross again.

"She is young, but her soul is old," Bane said at last, turning back to look at Barsad, a sharp stare that warned against delving deeper.

Barsad pursed his lips, nodded, questions filling his eyes, but he was wise enough to take his small victory and not push for more, at least not right now. "Will you see her again?"

"I hope so, but…I don't know." He took his rifle into his hands. "Hopefully one day I will be as comfortable as you in this life."

"Well, don't think I'm immune to what you're feeling. Why do you think I worked for Saddig so long? At the time I was a bit tired, thought a steady position like that was what I needed. I mean, I wasn't always in Rajasthan—I went wherever Saddig needed me to go—but I always had a base, you know, kinda like you did. So I understand what you mean."

Bane peered closer at Barsad's downturned face and leadingly said, "Maysam."

Barsad lifted his head in surprise. "What about her?"

Bane hesitated, not sure he wanted to know the answer, but curiosity got the better of him. "It was easy enough to see you care about her a great deal." A small grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Was there a…an indiscretion?"

Barsad stared, his jaw loosening, his ruddy complexion darkening even more. Then he recovered and his usual cheekiness returned as a defense, "And why should I tell you anything when you're always throwing up smokescreens?" He playfully lobbed a rock at Bane and slid even farther below the crest before getting to his feet, his heavy Barrett .50 caliber cradled in his arms. "C'mon. I smell goat on the menu. Abdul must be cooking today."

With a slight laugh, Bane started to rise, always a laborious effort, thanks to his tortured back. Barsad thrust out a hand.

"C'mon, old man. Let me help you."

Bane batted away his hand but did not keep his appreciative smile from his eyes. "It's not the years; it's the mileage."

Barsad laughed heartily. "Bane quoting Indiana Jones. Will wonders never cease today?"

#

Bane's bamboo crochet hook moved with fluid precision, rhythmical, stitch after stitch, row after row, the growing length of a scarf laid out in his lap where he sat cross-legged on the floor of the bunker. A crackling fire in the wood stove, bolstered by the body heat of nearly two dozen men, kept the nighttime cold from intruding. He sat slightly apart from his men, his back to a corner, an old habit. Though he kept his tired eyes on his work, he was aware of everyone in the room. The conversations were a mix of Kashmiri, Pashto, and Urdu. Bane was fluent in the latter, and in the ten weeks he had been with the militant tribesmen, he had picked up a working knowledge of the others. However, most of the men also knew English as a second language, so Bane's ability to understand their native tongues was not imperative; yet he made it a practice to always be a student, to acquire new skills, and it was plain that his men appreciated and respected his efforts.

He glanced at his watch, never missing a stitch as he did so. It was getting late. Soon he would don his coat to check on those who were on watch, including Barsad, to walk the perimeter and make sure all were alert and protected as much as possible from the unforgiving elements. Thinking of their Indian adversaries beyond the highway, he was quite certain they were far more comfortable than his men.

His thoughts drifted over these past few weeks stationed here on the mountaintop. He had not started out in command. That honor had been unexpectedly bestowed upon him when Santha Dhar had fallen ill and relinquished his authority. Dhar and Bane had gotten along well from the outset. Dhar's younger life had been one of hardship and poverty, leading him into the ranks of men fighting for various causes. He had had a gun in his hands most of his life and figured he would die that way as well. Dhar had recommended Bane as his temporary replacement, and no one had objected, not only because they trusted Dhar's judgment but because these men, more so than Bane's comrades in the NLI, had seemed to sense his fighting qualities and natural authority right away. The more superstitious or primitive among them looked upon him and his mask with a certain awe, as if he were some deity from another world. Of course, such beliefs had been bolstered by Barsad and his penchant for making up fantastic tales about Bane just to see what reactions he could garner.

Bane preferred these men over those in the NLI or the regular Pakistani army. Though they ultimately answered to the Pakistani military and took orders from that body during this operation, they were definitely cut from a different cloth, both as soldiers and as men. Bane found infinitely more honor among them as well as a toughness that was inherent, not just a matter of training. They complained little and could withstand much. Bane had no qualms about their combat readiness.

He paused in his work, set aside his hook, and rubbed his eyes. Flexing the stiffness from his fingers, he sighed.

As his thoughts often did at night when at leisure, they turned to Talia, and he wondered what she was doing. Though he tried to deny himself, he reached inside his layered clothing to bring forth her small photograph. Almost dog-eared now. He knew he should stop carrying it on his person. After all, none of these men would even think of touching something that was not their own. He frowned wistfully at Talia's smile as she looked across her right shoulder at him. She wore a sleeveless, pale teal blouse, her bare shoulder raised just slightly, drawing closer to her tapered chin, giving her a coquettish look. Had she manufactured such an expression? No, it came naturally to her, a quality that troubled him when he thought of the young, wealthy boys who surrounded her at Le Rosey…and when he thought of Rā's al Ghūl's designs for his daughter. No doubt Rā's, too, had recognized such qualities in Talia, but unlike Bane, Rā's saw them as assets, weapons, of far greater value to the League than the combat training she had received.

"You look at her often," the voice of Farooq Nehru pulled Bane from his reverie.

Bane's first impulse was to hide the photo away again in his pocket, but he was not ready to do so. Instead he set it on his thigh and took up his crochet again, giving him an excuse not to look at Nehru, his third in command.

"What is her name?" Nehru continued in his accented English, his words gentle, lacking any trace of ignobility.

Bane hesitated. "Talia."

"Family?"

"You could say so."

Nehru nodded, settling against the wall, allowing space between them. His movement was made with care, for he was not a young man. His brown face, wizened by years in the elements, belonged to someone much older than Nehru's forty-five years. A faded orange and white turban hid the traces of gray in his dark hair. "You miss her."

"Yes."

"I miss my family as well."

"Do you have any children?"

"Yes. Five of them."

The crochet needle continued its familiar movements. "How do you protect them when you are so far away?"

"I protect them by providing for them." Nehru gestured toward his nearby rifle. "This is how I provide for them."

"And if you should be killed?"

"Then my brother will care for them."

Bane grunted cynically when he thought of his own half-brother, a sibling he had never met, nor did he ever expect to meet.

Nehru raised one gray-flecked eyebrow. "You have no brothers to care for your family?"

"No."

Nehru nodded, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "Ah, but you have a brother here."

Bane frowned in confusion. "No."

"Barsad. He is your brother."

"No, we aren't related."

"By blood, no. But a true brother is made up of much more than blood."

Bane remembered the time after Nutkani's death when he had used the word brother in Barsad's presence and had seen that immediate, enigmatic change in the American's whole being. A similar reaction to what he had witnessed several days ago when Barsad revealed that his own brother was dead.

"We haven't known each other that long," Bane said as a way to dismiss Nehru's observation.

"Long enough to have forged a bond." Nehru nodded to himself. "He looks up to you, as a younger brother looks up to his eldest."

"Your eyes are old and deceptive, my friend," Bane teased, turning his crochet and beginning a new row. "And if I were you, I would be resting those eyes tonight. This might be your last night of rest for a while."

Nehru nodded again, this time sagely, with the wisdom of a veteran soldier. "You expect an attack tomorrow."

"Well, the batteries you scouted today weren't deployed just to gather dust." He cast an appreciative glance Nehru's way. "They will try to soften us up with those Bofors before they send men up this mountain. Tomorrow night there will be no moon. They will come then."

"They would be wiser simply to blockade the supply routes of our Pakistani brethren. It is what I would do."

"But to do so, the Indians would have to cross the LOC. Ground or aerial assaults into Pakistani territory would draw condemnation from other countries. No, they will want the Paks to be seen as the invaders, and they the defenders, the ones on the side of right, protecting their homeland."

"So many outposts along the mountaintops. Our Indian friends will pay a high price if they hope to recapture them."

"Indeed they will. Let us make it so." Bane gathered his crochet and tucked it away into his pack. "Now I must make my rounds."

Before leaving the bunker, Bane poured a cup of coffee from the stove. Barsad would need it—he had run out of cigarettes today.


	10. Chapter 10

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Ten**

The next day Nehru took men down the mountain to acquire more ammunition from the Pakistani supply chain. In anticipation of the attack, the rest of Bane's command fortified positions—rifle pits dug deeper where the soil allowed, reinforced with sandbags; and where the ground was less forgiving, the sangars were strengthened with even more rocks and debris. Bane risked sniper fire to personally inspect the forward positions located below the crest, ensuring each had the best possible line of sight down the mountain. These defensive positions would not be manned until after the artillery bombardment had ceased. Then once the Indians began their painstaking ascent, half of Bane's force would occupy this elongated line, providing defilade fire upon the attackers. The second line of defense was closer to the crest, concentrated on the flanks, allowing enfilade fire into any Indian forces assaulting the first line or pressing toward the bunker's main position.

Bane's fingers twitched restlessly whenever he considered the other Pakistani outposts to the north and south of him. If any of those collapsed, this post could easily be flanked. He would need to have a steady man on the radio, staying in close contact with the Dras region to their south and the Batalik region to the north.

For several hours Pakistani artillery shells screamed over their heads, seeking out the Indian batteries hidden behind the mountains across the valley, using coordinates Bane's men had called in, thanks to Nehru's reconnaissance. Hopefully the Pak gunners would find their targets before the Indians could redeploy their howitzers.

By mid-afternoon the guns fell silent. Bane took advantage of the lull and ordered an early supper cooked for all. Best not to have his men fighting on empty stomachs, particularly when it was impossible to gauge when they would next have an opportunity to eat, especially a hot meal. The men ate outside in the crisp mid-May day, the sun slipping in and out of high, racing clouds of white. Conversation was light and easy, interspersed with some laughter, as if this day were like any of the other mundane ones before it. Bane's satisfied eyes swept across his men's faces. All had been in combat before, close combat. He had no doubts about any of them.

Barsad sat among them, finished with his meal now, and happily lighting up a cigarette. Earlier in the day he had volunteered for Nehru's detail down the mountain, no doubt as eager to acquire tobacco as he was bullets. Bane grunted to himself. He would not begrudge Barsad's habit today. Whatever it took to keep his sharpshooter's fingers steady.

Deadshot. The nickname had followed Barsad here from the NLI. Bane himself had propagated the moniker among his men, knowing Barsad secretly enjoyed the notoriety. Of course the tribesmen had immediately demanded proof of the American's skills, and they had just as quickly been satisfied beyond all doubts.

Bane considered what Nehru had said yesterday about his relationship with Barsad. He was unconvinced that Barsad held him in as high esteem as Nehru said. True enough, they shared the usual bond of soldiers, and he certainly would miss Barsad's company should they part ways, but who could say if Barsad felt the same way? Bane could not imagine Barsad sharing such thoughts with any of the others. Not when he wanted to nurture his reputation as a cold-blooded killer.

Having finished his meal and replaced his mask, Bane headed into the bunker to replenish his analgesic. He also transferred several days' supply from his pack to his various pockets. That way if a shell happened to destroy the bunker and his drug supply there, he would still have enough to last him until he could acquire more through the usual channels.

Once back outside, he took one last tour around the perimeter, at last assuring himself that he had done all he could to be prepared.

#

The Indian artillery opened up late in the day, sending Bane's men scrambling for cover on the reverse slope of the mountain. Only a handful of men remained in forward positions to report on any infantry massing in the valley below for an assault, though Bane figured those preparations would not occur until just before dark.

The Indian gunners dropped shells all across the mountain, though many shrieked beyond the crest to fall into the valley below. Several reduced the outpost's smaller outlying buildings to rubble before nightfall, but the bunker itself fell victim only to a glancing blow that crumbled one rear corner. Hugging cover on the reverse slope, the worst Bane's men suffered were a few minor wounds from flying shards of rock from the closer strikes. Any craters left behind by the barrage would make convenient foxholes.

Bane had Gami, the radioman, with him, periodically reporting in to central command. More importantly, he listened keenly to reports from other outposts, some of which were also weathering a storm of artillery. Like them, the others were merely hunkering down, awaiting the ground assault. He also kept in constant contact with his men in the forward positions, Barsad among them. Though concerned about the danger such an assignment presented his friend, he also wanted the outfit's best eyes watching what was happening in that valley.

Finally twilight slipped along the valley below Bane's position, though the sun still played along the tops of the mountains. Lights would be winking on in the distant town of Kargil; Barsad would be seeing them now. Bane wondered about the civilians. Were they terrified by the thundering roll of artillery bouncing back and forth off the hills and mountains? Were they as disturbed as the streaking flocks of birds that had sped through the skies earlier? Had the Indian army warned them? Bane assumed as much, for he had seen a steady stream of refugees along the highway in the past few days.

As evening shadows crept up from the valley, the last volley roared from the Indian guns, rolling on and on, reverberating with one final, defiant growl. Bane—for once pleased about the mask's muffling effect on his hearing—waited for several minutes to ensure this was the last. He glanced at his watch then at the sun over his shoulder. The blood-red orb had already begun to slide below the western ranges, luring the darkness ever closer to him. He sighed in pleasant anticipation. Even after all these years away from the pit prison, he still felt most comfortable when surrounded by night; it felt like Melisande's soothing blanket thrown over his shoulders. The darkness belonged to him and he to it. Let the Indians come.

"We've got movement on our front," Barsad's voice crackled over the com.

"To your posts!" Bane ordered over his radio.

The mountainside came alive as his men rushed up the slope. They paused just before the crest, waited, looking over their shoulders at the dying sun, then when it fell beyond the mountains and no longer threatened to silhouette them, they hurried forward and along the flanks to their assigned positions. Bane and Gami entered the bunker which would serve as the command post.

The night was long and cold for his men out on the mountainside as they vigilantly watched through night vision goggles the painstakingly slow progress of the _jawans_ climbing up the steep slope. Machinegun fire laid down by Bane's men further hampered the advancing troops, many of whom would have little experience in high altitude combat; these would tire quickly and slow the others. Even if acclimatized, it would take them hours to scale the heights, and by the time they could reach even Barsad's position, they would be exhausted, too exhausted to be effective.

So Bane waited patiently, urging the night on in the hopes that morning would leave their foe stranded and exposed on the mountain slope with no way up and no way down.

#

The Indian troops had progressed only some eighteen hundred meters by dawn. With the rising sun in the faces of Bane's men, he expected the enemy to try at least one last push to secure higher ground, but instead the advance completely stalled. In concert with machineguns, Bane's men used mortars and grenade launchers to further hamper and discourage the Indians. And although artillery came to bear once again, attempting to suppress the firepower of Bane's men, none of the ground forces advanced more than a few dozen meters during daylight hours. By the following morning, the mountainside was once again devoid of Indian forces.

"We can thank the mountain sickness," Nehru said over a steaming cup of coffee outside the bunker.

"Yes, as we expected," Bane nodded. "Those men are used to the heat and lower altitude of the Kashmiri Valley, and their commanders have not had the luxury or foresight to allow them time to acclimatize. Most of them lack cold-weather gear. No doubt some suffered frostbite last night."

"Time is on their side, though," Barsad said. "If we aren't reinforced or relieved, they'll grow stronger and adapt while we grow weaker."

Though Bane frowned his displeasure at Barsad's comments, he knew all too well that his friend was correct. Their force numbered less than fifty, and though they held the advantageous high ground, untold days or weeks atop this mountain would wear down his men, especially now that the enemy had begun an offensive. The first assault had failed, but another would come soon; perhaps as soon as tonight. With this in mind, Bane left only a skeleton force in the forward sangars and along each flank, then rotated men periodically so everyone had a chance to return to the bunker to eat and rest in relative warmth until the next, inevitable attack.

Over the following ten days, the outpost came under fire nearly every day from artillery. Infantry attempted two more attacks, one during the day and one at night. Bane knew that every failure to dislodge the defenders here and at other points along the LOC taught the Indian high command valuable lessons, the obvious being that frontal assaults—even with far superior numbers—were too costly and nearly pointless.

Late in May, Bane awoke to the roar of jets. He rushed from the bunker in time to see two MiG-21s soar in from the east, early sunlight flashing upon their wings as they banked and headed south.

"Headed for Tololing," Barsad said to the other men who had gathered to watch the Russian-made fighters grow smaller. "Won't waste their time on us…yet."

Bane grunted, a hundred calculations whirring in his head. "I wouldn't worry too much about the IAF. This altitude will diminish the accuracy of their weapons and adversely affect the jets' performance." He nodded toward one of his men. "Khatun, deploy the SAMs. Those fighters come back this way, we'll make them regret flying so low."

Though Bane's men waited eagerly for a chance to fire one of the surface-to-air missiles, the MiGs did not fly over again that day. The next, however, they returned. The men cheered later when word came over the radio that a MiG-27 had suffered engine failure and crashed, then an NLI unit had brought down a MiG-21 with a stinger missile. The following day, another stinger took down an IAF attack helicopter.

"That will be the end of their low level flying," Barsad predicted. "They'll leave us alone."

"Us, yes," Bane said. "But there are other targets they can hit from higher altitudes where SAMs can't reach them."

"Supply lines," Nehru said.

"Yes." Bane glanced down into the valley behind their positions. "So while we have the chance, Nehru, send a detail with the mules to get as much food and ammunition as can be carried. No doubt it will be our last chance. Send only two men—we can ill afford even two."

"We run out of food, we can always eat the mules," Barsad said with a grin.

#

In sudden fury, Bane crumpled the letter in his hand. Violent anger propelled him to his feet and out of the bunker. He stormed away from the small cluster of crude buildings, ignoring the questioning glances of the handful of men unloading the fresh supplies from the tired mules. Thankfully Barsad was not among them, for Bane did not want his friend to witness his momentary lapse of control.

Bane paced some ways down the reverse slope, the letter still clenched in his grip. His breath rattled through the mask, as jagged and broken as his thoughts, jetting clouds of vapor before him. He had left the bunker without his coat, hat, or gloves, and though it was early summer, the temperatures at this high elevation were still low and would drop lower still once the failing sun slipped beyond the western range. He stared at it now, cursed it because he could, and though he was not normally a profane man, right now he _needed_ to curse something.

His boots crunched across the rocky soil as he paced back and forth, hands balled into fists, trying to regain his composure. This was not the time or place to be distracted by things over which he had no control. No control! How he hated the helpless feeling. He should be _there_, not here. _He_ should be there.

As his steps gradually slowed, so too did his respiration until at last he stood still, his hard gazing raking across the jagged mountaintops toward the sun, soon to set. He needed to refocus. He needed to get back to the task at hand. Nighttime here was the most dangerous, the most inviting for an attack. Others were depending on him. Lives at stake. What this letter contained was not life or death. Yet to him the news had seemed just as grave, for it signified a finality, the complete realization that whatever hope he had held onto about regaining Rā's al Ghūl's favor was fruitless.

"Hope," Bane remembered the word being thrown at him like a weapon by a fellow prisoner in the pit, a man who had mocked Bane's dream of escape, a man whom Bane had eventually killed. "Like a cloak wrapped around you," the Vulture had sneered, "snug and warm, but then the cloak turns into a snake that squeezes the life from you."

Slowly Bane opened his grip and compelled his fingers to straighten the sheet of paper back into readable shape. Before the distant mountains could steal away the light, he read the contents of the letter again. Talia's small handwriting. Not as neat as usual. No, the words were written quickly and with harsh strokes, belying her own anger. How he wished he had been there to comfort her, to focus on her emotions instead of his own.

_I wasn't going to tell you_, the letter began, _because I know it will make you as angry as it has made me, and I don't know what kind of situation you are in right now; I especially don't want to upset you if you are in a dangerous place, which I'm guessing you are since I haven't heard from you since New Dehli. But I can't keep it to myself, _habibi_; I know you will understand, as you always do._

_ Papa has taken in Bruce Wayne! He was able to find him in some God forsaken prison and bought his freedom. I'm sure that cost him a pretty penny, but you know Papa; he always gets what he wants. The very thought of someone like Wayne living in _our_ home makes me sick. Papa is going to train Wayne himself. Can you believe that? Think of how much time that will take. I can hardly believe Papa would neglect his more important duties to waste his time with Wayne._

Something twisted inside Bane's stomach. But he quickly berated his weakness. It was foolish, especially after all this time, to feel slighted by Rā's' decision not to train him when he had come to the League, instead leaving those responsibilities to Temujin. And after all, Temujin had been an excellent teacher. But of course it had not been just about the training; Bane had hoped to forge a close relationship with Rā's, and he believed the rigors of endless hours of training together would provide the foundation for just such a paternal connection. But Rā's had always kept him at arm's length, so much so that Bane often thought Rā's had never really believed in him, had expected—perhaps wanted—him to fail, providing an excuse to be rid of his charge, rid of the monster who had fallen in love with his wife but who had failed—like Rā's himself—to save her.

_Of course it will take months if not years to train someone like Wayne_, the letter continued. _He will not have the commitment that we have. No doubt he will fail, and Papa will see the mistake he has made. Then he will be forced to kill Wayne. I hope I'm there to see it. And when it happens, Papa will regret losing you. There is no one in the League as deserving as you to be second in command, to be ready for the day when Papa is an old man and will relinquish his position. Once his plans for Wayne fail, Papa will see the error of his ways, and I will be able to convince him you are crucial to the League's survival and success. But until that day, _habibi_, I have no plans to see Papa; even if he travels to Switzerland, I will refuse to see him. If he wants his daughter back, he will have to take you back. That is my ultimatum to him. I've already told him as much._

Though her continued espousal flattered him, Bane still winced at these words. Talia was far too young to be wielding such emotion and power over her father. No matter his conflicted emotions about Rā's al Ghūl, he would continue to caution Talia against such foolhardy plans. Yet Bane did, however, admit relief at the prospect of Talia avoiding Bruce Wayne. If Wayne was any sort of intelligent man, he would be drawn to the young woman, recognizing not only her external beauty but her exceptional acumen and maturity. How could any man resist his _habibati_? And like all men of wealth and power, Wayne would be accustomed to getting whatever caught his eye, whether he deserved it or not.

Bane realized his hands were clenched again, his fingertips forcing small tears in the paper. Admonishing his impulses, he smoothed the paper against his thigh.

_I miss you so much, Bane. I hope you have been receiving my letters. I will keep sending them in the hopes that you are receiving them and that they make some positive difference to you. I don't want you to forget me._

Now it was his heart that clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut, unwittingly emitted a tiny groan. How could his love ever think he could forget her? He longed to call her, to write her, to assure her that she would always have him, that he could never for a minute banish the thought of her. Even amidst the storm of artillery shells, mortars, and deprivation atop this mountain, it was Talia who sustained him. She was his courage, his very reason to keep living. He would tell her this, all of this once this siege was over.

Distant thunder turned his attention southward. More shelling in the direction of Dras. Bane's eyes narrowed against the diminishing light. He wondered when the next attack would come against his sector.

Carefully he folded the crinkled letter, frowning. Would he make it off this mountain alive? He must, he told himself. He could not leave Talia thinking that he could ever in this lifetime or the next forget her…or that he would ever allow Bruce Wayne to possess her.


	11. Chapter 11

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Eleven**

"What are they waiting for?" Gami asked angrily. "They keep probing. Why do they not just come at us again?"

"Because they have learned from their mistakes," Bane said, squinting into the sun of an early June morning. "They will come again once they are ready, which should be any day now."

"Good," Gami said, anxiously plucking at his patchy facial hair. "I have had enough of waiting."

Bane did not like the look of the young man. Six weeks atop this mountain had taken a physical as well as mental toll on Gami. It was true of all of them, but some showed it more than others. Enough to concern Bane. The Indians had delayed their offensive for more reasons than simply to prepare and reinforce their own troops. No, there would be officers among their high command—mountaineers—who knew the rigors of high altitude deployment and how it would wear down the Pakistani forces. They—like Bane—would also be cognizant of the tactics employed by the German Army in the Rhodope Mountains of Greece during the Second World War and those of the U.S. Army's 10th Mountain Division in the Apennines of Italy. Fire and maneuver. Artillery and small, well-trained infantry units carried the day. No, there would be no more foolish frontal assaults. The Indians had grown stronger and become more educated, while their foes on the mountains grew weaker and more desperate. Bane had already lost five men to wounds inflicted by artillery fire. They had been carried off the mountain and would never return.

To Barsad alone did Bane voice his concerns. When Barsad was on watch in one of the sangars, Bane would occasionally share the uncomfortable rat's den with him for nearly half an hour when things on their front were quiet.

"It's no longer just a military operation," Bane had said during the first week in June. "It has now become a political one."

"What do you mean?" Barsad peered for a long moment down the rocky slope before allowing himself to relax and sit next to Bane, their backs against the sangar's fortifications.

"Just received a dispatch. The Indians have released documents they claim they took off three Pak soldiers that prove Pakistan's involvement."

"Well, shit. That'll put holes in the Pak smokescreen about _mujahedeen_ being the source of the incursion."

"Yes. It's out in the open now. No matter how the Paks spin it, the international community won't buy into any justification for crossing the LOC, especially when both countries involved have nukes. There will be universal condemnation. Then political pressure against the Pakistani government will prove as effective as military advances."

"So maybe this'll all be over, and we'll be off this mountain in a few days."

Bane grunted skeptically. "I think not. The Indians will want to prove their ability to defend their borders so this doesn't happen again, and the Paks won't simply slink back across the LOC unless someone lights a match between their toes. No, we are not out of this yet. Our friends down below will be coming at us again soon."

"Well," Barsad said with a grin, patting his rifle, "we'll be ready."

#

The attack came the next day, preceded by the most intense artillery barrage yet. Though Pakistani batteries miles to the rear sought to silence the Indian Bofors, they seemed to have little effect as round after round rained down upon Bane and his small force. While most of his men hugged the ground on the reverse slope, protected by the impact craters of earlier shellings, Bane moved all around the perimeter, checking on the handful of men in the forward positions and those on the flanks. He knew his fearlessness and seeming unconcern for his own safety would serve to inspire his men, and they would need all the inspiration they could get as daylight waned.

This time when the infantry advance came at sunset the Indian artillery continued to fire, serving to initially suppress the firepower of Bane's forces now deployed forward and along the flanks. Cloud cover brought night all the more quickly. Tracers and muzzle flashes provided the only light as the Indian forces climbed. Though these men were far more prepared for the task than before, Bane knew even the best mountaineers would need hours to scale the heights, their progress hampered by bullets, grenades, and mortars. He also knew the Indians would not attack the center of his line as in the past. With this in mind, Bane had strengthened his flanks, especially on the right where Barsad was deployed. The left flank was elevated, so Bane was confident the Indians would not spearhead the attack there, for such a strategy would subject them enfilade and interlocking fire should they gain the mountaintop. No, the main attack would hit the right flank where the mountain fell away in the form of two _nullahs_—dry streambeds which provided cover for those ascending. Barsad and his men protected the upper reaches of the _nullahs_ and their corresponding ridgelines. Anti-personnel mines had been buried along these approaches as well, but they were widely dispersed; the initial supply covered the main approach up the eastern slope, deployed there before Bane had taken command. Bane would have been more judicious with their placement, and unfortunately he had been unable to requisition more to make up for his predecessor's shortsightedness. The Indians had discovered the minefield the hard way during their last assault and thus had another reason to avoid a direct assault on the bunker.

Gami remained in the bunker with the radio and the men manning a heavy machine gun while Bane continued to move about, keeping in close contact with each sector throughout the long, deafening night. He reminded his men to aim low, for firing downhill often made soldiers pull their shots high.

As expected, close to dawn Barsad reported Indian forces in the _nullahs_, but the rising sun halted their progress. The Indians went to ground, finding protection in impact craters, behind rocks, and in any sort of depression that could be found. And there they stayed throughout the day, just a couple of hundred meters from Bane's lines, trading mortar fire and small arms fire with the defenders while artillery from both armies tried to dislodge and demoralize.

Bane listened keenly to the reports over the radio, telling of Indian assaults against the various outposts along the LOC. He knew that this was all simply a matter of time now. The Pakistanis had allowed their foes too much time to prepare and improve their forces, from supply lines to increased artillery batteries to infantry better trained for high altitude fighting. Who could fault him if he ordered a withdrawal? Yet Bane had no such immediate plans. He would not be the first to tuck tail and run back over the LOC. Not only would he not willingly countenance such failure, but he knew his men were determined to hold this position for as long as possible.

Artillery continued to take its toll on Bane's forces. By nightfall three of his men were dead, and four others were lying in the bunker, suffering from grievous wounds. And though his men had spent the day picking off every _jawan_ foolish enough to show himself, Bane knew they were easily outnumbered ten to one.

Once darkness had settled in for another night, the Indian advance resumed with fresh ferocity. They pressed on all three fronts, demonstrating against the left flank and the center in order to keep Bane's men from reinforcing the critical right flank. The forces in the _nullahs_ crept ever upward regardless of the withering fire laid down by Barsad and the others. Where one _jawan_ fell, three others took his place.

"I don't know how much longer we can hold out," Barsad's strained voice crackled over Bane's com. "They seem to be shifting some of their men farther to the right."

"They're trying to turn our flank," Bane replied with a knowing nod to himself.

"They get behind us, this is all over. Can you reinforce us—?"

The rest of Barsad's question ended in noise and static, so loud that it pained Bane's ear.

"Barsad." No response, just the rattle of gunfire, but not close gunfire, not Barsad's gun. Bane's pulse quickened. "Barsad, do you copy?" He listened intently, trying to delve through the chaotic cacophony hammering through the com. He felt Gami's worried gaze from next to him. "Barsad, do you copy?"

Faints groans, curses, a scratching noise, then finally Barsad's voice, hoarse and filled with pain, "Motherfuckers nearly took me apart with a mortar."

"You're injured?"

Barsad spat dirt, a grimace plain in his reply: "My leg."

"How bad?"

"It's broken. Son of a bitch…" Bane could hear Barsad dragging himself across the ground, then another oath as he tumbled back into his protective hole. "Blew my sangar to shits, but I'm still in this fight. Motherfuckers; I'll make 'em pay."

Bane grinned at the sound of Barsad's renewed gunfire, then said, "I'll try to send you a couple more men, but we're stretched thin."

But even with Gami sent to the right flank, rifle in hand, radio left behind, Bane's forces began to slowly unravel as others fell wounded or killed. He pulled more men from the center to reinforce the flanks, but their increased firepower was no match against such overwhelming odds. If they could hold out until morning, they might live to fight another day, but Bane knew such hopes were futile, and so he burned whatever intelligence there was in the bunker.

The bunker's heavy machine gun rattled off round after round, but targets on their front were scarce compared to the flanks. Bane gave his gunners a final pat on their shoulders and a stiff nod to bolster them before taking his own rifle into his hands and heading outside.

Reaching the left flank, he found Nehru, wounded in the head, his face bathed in drying blood, still at his post, firing coolly and with precision from behind his rock cover. But his men were too few, stretched far apart, leaving gaps that would soon be exploited. Bane knew many of them, like Nehru, had been wounded. As on the opposite flank, here the Indians kept shifting men farther and farther to Nehru's left, hoping to get behind Bane's lines.

"We will fight to the last," Nehru promised, his breathing labored.

"There is no sense in that," Bane said. "I would rather you live to fight another day, my friend. But I fear that will not be upon this mountain. They will be in our rear before morning."

Nehru's lips pressed together in a long, thin line, and he squeezed off several more rounds at the darting shapes.

"In fifteen minutes, begin to withdraw your men," Bane said. "One by one. We'll do the same all along the line. Rendezvous in Karkit."

Nehru gave him a regretful nod. Regretful, yes, but not resentful. He understood the futility of the situation as much as Bane, though that did not make accepting defeat any easier, but he was a soldier, and soldiers follow orders. They had done the best they could with the limited resources they had been given. No forty men ever made could hold this mountain now.

Bane moved down the line, relaying his orders personally, not chancing the enemy intercepting his orders over their com frequencies. But before he could make it to the right, a deafening flurry of gunfire and explosions lit up the night sky out on the farthest reaches of Nehru's flank, and he knew the time for an orderly withdrawal had passed.

Nehru's voice crackled over his com: "Enemy in our rear. Repeat, enemy in—"

Nothing more.

Bane cursed, breaking into a run toward Barsad's position. Heavy gunfire in that direction. No doubt the Indians had pressed the attack here at the same time as the other flank. He had no choice but to order an immediate withdrawal. If not, they would be cut off, if they were not already.

As he reached the right, he saw his men begin to give ground firing, no panic, no rush. Disciplined, begrudging. Melting away, low and surly. He found Barsad still blazing away from his crumbled sangar. When Bane dropped next to him, Barsad flashed a knife at him, eyes blazing, teeth bared. Bane caught his wrist just in time.

"It's me, brother."

Barsad's gaze cleared. "What the hell are you doing here? You gave the order to withdraw."

"I did."

"Then get the hell outta here!"

Barsad seamlessly went back to discharging his weapon at the closing shadows, men's shouts now ringing through the gunfire, triumphant, incited by their enemy's fading shapes.

"You're coming with us."

"Not with this leg I'm not." Blood blackened Barsad's right leg, a makeshift tourniquet around his thigh, his pant leg shredded. "Now clear the fuck outta here. I'll cover you."

But Bane had not come here to debate. He knew that the Indians climbing up this mountain were as aware as he of the five _jawans_ who had been captured and tortured to death last month by Pakistanis stationed north of here. Bane feared that if any of his men were taken, they would suffer retribution for those atrocities.

His large hands grabbed Barsad like two indomitable cranes, lifting him onto his shoulders.

Barsad, clinging to his rifle, still firing, shouted, "What the fuck are you doing? You're gonna get us both killed!"

Thankfully Barsad lost his hold on the Barrett, lightening Bane's load considerably. With only his pistol now, Barsad continued to fire back at their ever-closing foe, cursing Bane the whole time, demanding that he be left behind. Bane's keen eyes searched the terrain ahead, looking for any dip or impact crater to help them avoid the rounds singing past his ears. His other men had slipped away down the reverse slope. Rapid muzzle flashes and tracer all along the summit told him that all of their defenses, from one end to the other, had been breached.

A bullet slammed into the back of his thick support belt, slowed by his flak jacket. The blow caused him to pitch forward and stumble, nearly dropping Barsad. He staggered up from one knee, pushed on, his breath raspy and labored through the mask, the God damn mask… Barsad emptied his clip. Without thinking, Bane clawed one of his own free and passed it to his friend who resumed his frantic fire.

Two more strides, and the world exploded. Night became day as Bane went airborne, deafened by the RPG. Barsad's weight lifted from him. Without knowing it, his hands clawed the air in search of his friend, an instinct, nothing more. The light vanished as abruptly as it had come, and he fell through blackness, silent, grave blackness like that of the pit, falling, falling without end as he had twice fallen from the walls of the prison shaft so long ago…


	12. Chapter 12

**INTO THE FIRE**

**Twelve**

"Should we take it off him?"

"How? I see no way to do so. It appears to be one piece."

"There must be a way."

"Is it a gas mask?"

"Never seen anything like it before. Maybe the Captain will know."

"We need to revive him."

"Why?"

"So he can walk down the mountain. I do not wish to carry him, do you?"

"No. You are right; it would be like carrying a bull."

_My young bull_. In the darkness where Bane floated, Temujin's voice contrasted with the Urdu being spoken around him. _Wake up, my young bull. Wake up before they compromise the mask_. But for a long moment Bane resisted returning to the mountain; he wanted to remain at rest. Regaining consciousness would mean _seeing_ his defeat. Hearing it was bad enough.

Then…searching hands, going through his clothing, seeking intel or anything of value, of course. They would find none, so let them look all they wanted. But his breath caught when he felt fingers reaching into the pocket where he kept Talia's photo…

In a flash he slammed back into consciousness and grabbed the man's hand, crushed it before he even had his eyes open. The soldier howled in agony. A rifle butt crashed against the side of Bane's head, drove him back into insensibility. He struggled to remain lucid, to safeguard Talia's picture, but the pain in his head momentarily swelled beyond the reach of the mask's opiates, and the blackness reclaimed him.

###

"Can't we just leave him behind?"

"No. They will want to question him."

"Then get him on his feet. We aren't going to carry this beast all the way down the mountain."

"You fool! He cannot walk with those shrapnel wounds. I have patched him up the best I can, but he needs a doctor before he is going to be back on his feet. Now quit stalling. Find others to help you, and be quick about it or I will report you to the Captain."

Bane felt the constriction of bandages around his thighs. There was little pain, though, thanks to the mask's inhalant, and perhaps his captors had injected him as well. But how much of the mask's supply remained in the canisters? Slowly his foggy brain searched backward. He had last replenished the crystals around eighteen hundred hours. But how long ago was that? As his concern grew, he reluctantly willed himself back from the void.

"Ah, there…see? He is awake," the medic said. "Now try not to bash his head again with your rifle. He is of no use to anyone if he cannot speak."

One of others gestured to the mask. "Maybe he cannot speak at all."

The medic got to his feet and took a step back from his patient, as if to avoid an anticipated blow. Buckling his medical bag, the Indian switched to English, addressing Bane now as the other soldiers around them also backed out of Bane's reach, weapons at the ready. "No more tricks from you. We have bound your hands since you have proven you still wish to harm us."

Bane said nothing as he sat up from his uncomfortable position on the floor of the damaged bunker. Early morning light streamed inward from several shell blasts that had crumbled parts of the ceiling and walls. The day's cold clutched at him, having taken advantage of his immobility for so many hours. The next thought that penetrated the cobwebs in his mind was of Talia's picture. With his hands restrained behind him, he could not check his pocket, nor would he give these _jawans_ the satisfaction of asking them about it. He would show no weakness of any kind to his weary captors.

They were not alone in the bunker; a major stood near the unmanned heavy machine gun, reading a piece of paper in his hand and speaking over a radio while others soldiers came and went at his bidding.

The medic slung his medical bag over his shoulder. "These men will take you down the mountain where your wounds will be treated more thoroughly."

"There was a man with me," Bane croaked out through his dirt-dry mouth, the unnatural sound of his voice further unnerving a couple of the men, causing them to finger the triggers of their weapons. "I was carrying him when I was hit. He's an American, wounded in the right leg. He was wearing a red scarf. What became of him?"

"He has preceded you down the mountain," the medic said.

"Then he lives?"

One of the other soldiers grinned sarcastically. "For now."

Another prodded Bane's mask with the muzzle of his rifle. "Why do you wear this? What is it for? Do you have chemical weapons?"

Bane's stare hardened upon the man whose companion took another retreating step. But the one who had spoken only broadened his dirty grin.

"Big secret, is it?"

"Enough talk," the medic growled. "Get him on the litter and get him out of here."

But Bane glared at them all and awkwardly struggled to his feet. The others gaped in surprise at his ability to stand regardless of his injuries. The wounds—while not trifling—were not deep, Bane could tell. Between his own strength and determination as well as the mask's analgesic he could tolerate them. His left arm was bandaged as well, and his whole body throbbed from the shock of the RPG, but the opiates made it all endurable. He enjoyed the amazed looks of his captors.

"That is my pack," Bane nodded toward the major, his opened pack at the officer's feet. "I would like to take it with me."

"Nothing doing," the surly one said. "Nothing on this mountain is yours anymore, merc."

Bane turned to the medic. "There is…medicine in it that I require."

The medic viewed him curiously for a moment before approaching the major and returning with the pack. Of course it had been rifled through, but Bane had been careful to leave nothing of value in it. Even Talia's letters he had burned.

"In that pocket," Bane gestured with his chin.

The medic removed the four small, unmarked hermetically sealed bottles that held the crystals. "What is this? I haven't seen anything like it. Medicine, you say?"

"He is a liar," one of the soldiers said in Urdu.

Speaking in the same language, surprising them once again, Bane said, "It is what I say it is."

"Medicine for what?" the soldier pressed.

Bane only stared, his deeply rising and falling chest belying his outer calm.

"Maybe we should keep it," the soldier said with a surreptitious glance toward the major. "Might be worth quite a bit."

The medic scowled at the man and said to Bane, "I will put these in your pockets if I have your word you won't attempt to injure me as you did our comrade." The medic's subtle grin told Bane that he had no affection for the soldier whose fingers had been crushed.

"You have my word, though judging from your companions I would guess the bottles will not remain with me once we leave the bunker."

"They will," the medic said, eying the three soldiers. "I will make sure to check on you once I make it back to the aid station. If the medicine is not on your person, I will report them."

The darkest of the three swarthy infantryman muttered a curse at the medic who paid him no heed.

"It would be better for your wounds if you make the descent on the litter."

Bane glowered at the soldiers. "I walked up this mountain; don't see any reason why I cannot walk down it." He glanced toward the door. "Shall we, gentlemen?"

###

"Well, well, well," Barsad grinned as he sat up on his cot. "Decided to join me after all, I see."

One of the soldiers escorting Bane into the medical tent gave him an impotent shove toward an empty cot beside Barsad's. Bane gave the man a slow-turning, simmering stare before sitting, inwardly relieved to rest his trembling legs after the arduous descent of the mountain.

"My friend's bandages need to be changed," Barsad said to Bane's escorts, pointing to the fresh blood seeping through the dressings.

The men simply laughed and tossed down Bane's pack before two of them left the open-sided tent. One remained behind as guard.

Their cots were at one end of the medical tent. The other wounded here appeared to be Indian soldiers, lying in two rows on either side. All who were awake stared with varying degrees of hatred, repulsion, and fear at Bane and his mask.

"Well, ain't this a fine kettle of fish?" Barsad remarked. "Damn fool; I told you to leave me on that mountain. No need for both of us to be guests of the Indian Army."

Ignoring Barsad's admonishment, Bane nodded toward his shirt pocket. "Tell me if they took her picture."

Barsad hesitated long enough to give Bane a disbelieving look and shake of his head. "You're in enemy hands and all you can think about is her picture?"

Bane glared. "Just look." Of course he had the strength and skill to free himself of his bindings but chose not to tip his hand in front of their guard.

Unlike Bane, Barsad's hands were not bound; with his broken leg, he plainly was not a flight risk. With another shake of his disheveled head, Barsad obeyed. And when he pulled out the photograph, Bane heaved an inward sigh. He nodded his thanks, and Barsad slipped the photo back into its protective pocket. Then he rummaged through Bane's pack, frown lines furrowing his broad forehead.

"Where's your medicine? Did they take it?"

"It's in my jacket pockets." With a grunt of discomfort, he drew his legs onto the cot.

Barsad scowled at the guard who was now sitting on a cot across the aisle, tantalizingly smoking a cigarette. "Untie my friend's hands."

"So he can break my neck?" the soldier sneered. "Nothing doing."

Barsad raised an eyebrow at Bane. "What did you do?"

"Broke my naik's hand, he did," the _jawan_ complained.

"Ah, making new friends again, were you, Bane?"

Bane growled and lay on his side, facing Barsad and his fresh cast. "How is your leg?"

Barsad's attention returned to the guard's cigarette. He breathed deeply to catch its scent before answering, "Clean break fortunately. No need for surgery, thank God. So it looks like I'll be hanging around with you a bit longer." He gestured to a Styrofoam cup on a squat stool between their cots. "When's the last time you drank?"

Bane shrugged one shoulder, hiding the fact that he was dehydrated.

"Let me take off the mask so you can drink."

Their guard stirred with interest, holding the cigarette away from his lips.

"More importantly," Bane said quietly, "I need you to replenish the canisters."

Just as Barsad finished and slipped the bottle back into Bane's pocket, a physician came down the row, escorted by one of the soldiers who had brought Bane: the dark, unpleasant one.

"What do you make of it, Doctor?" the _jawan_ asked, pointing his rifle barrel at Bane's mask.

"My first concern is his wounds," the physician said. "Make your report to your superior officer, and leave me to my work."

"Don't worry, Naresh," the guard grinned at the other soldier. "I will let you know all the details about our freakish friend."

The middle-aged physician gave the soldiers an irritated glance before pushing his drooping glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and turning back to Bane. In English, he said, "Please sit up." As Bane did so, the doctor ordered, "Remove his bindings."

"Not a good idea," the guard replied. "Crushed a man's hand who tried to touch him. No doubt he will crush your head if he has a mind to."

The doctor raised a mocking eyebrow at the soldier. "I trust your rifle will prevent that." Then to Bane, "Do I have your word that you will behave yourself while I treat you?"

"You do," Barsad answered for him, drawing a dark look from Bane. "Doesn't he, Bane?"

After a low, brief growl toward Barsad, Bane assured the physician of his compliance.

With one hand upon the trigger of his weapon, the guard reluctantly freed Bane.

As the doctor removed the bloody bandages then cleaned and dressed the wounds, he said nothing for some time. When he was nearly finished, his attention went to Bane's mask. "Are there other…issues I need to treat you for?"

"No."

"The men who brought you in said you are carrying medicine that you require. What is the medication for?"

Bane did not answer, and his pointed glance at Barsad ensured that his friend would not expound either.

The doctor's eyes darkened. "_You_ may either let me see it or I will ask our armed friend there to let me see it. Which shall it be?"

Bane remained silent.

"If I am to treat you properly, it is imperative that I know all medication you may be taking. I assure you that I will not steal it from you."

"The substance will be foreign to you," Bane rumbled.

"Then perhaps you will enlighten me." The doctor held out his hand. When Bane did not comply, he added, "You may defy me, but the men who will interrogate you will not allow such defiance. Why add to any such unpleasantness?"

"The bottles are in his jacket pocket," the guard said.

The doctor hesitated, studied Bane, measured him.

"Give it to him," the guard demanded, stepping closer with his rifle aimed. "Or I'll take it. But _I _won't give it back."

"I will tell you what it is," Bane said to the doctor while his gaze held the guard at bay. "But only you. And you will give me your word that you will tell no one else."

"I can give you my word, yes, but as I said others will be interrogating you, and rest assured they have little of my regard for your physical well-being."

"Of course."

"Very well. You have my word." Then to the guard, "Wait outside."

"I would not trust him, Doctor."

"Are you disobeying a direct order from a superior officer?"

The soldier scowled. "No, sir."

"Then step away. I trust your rifle can still drop this big fellow from more than three meters away, yes?"

Grumbling, flush-faced, the guard at last obeyed.

Muting his voice so it did not carry to any of the nearby wounded, Bane provided the barest of details about the crystals.

"Then no doubt it is unnecessary for me to provide additional pain medication?" the doctor asked.

"That is correct."

Barsad added, "As long as he's allowed to keep his supply."

"I will allow it, of course. But, as I said, ultimately I will not be the only one responsible for you and your masked friend." The doctor stood, showing his weariness in a small sigh. "Now let me get an IV started to provide you with some hydration. Once your new friends arrive you may find yourself deprived of such necessities."


End file.
